


Of My Enemy

by illegible



Series: In Surrender [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Dark, Fluff, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Sequel to Stalemate, Shadowbringers lore, Smut, Trauma, longfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23308528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/pseuds/illegible
Summary: Once, Lahabrea approached the Warrior of Light seeking punishment. In this, too, he met failure.Years later, a dark knight retrieves the Ascian in his prison.
Relationships: Lahabrea/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Series: In Surrender [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676218
Comments: 97
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Major thank you to Starships and Tenkeyless for helping me find direction for this as beta, as well as Lynmars for guidance on Thancred writing! It has made a huge difference and I appreciate it more than words can say. <3

In Ala Mhigo’s Royal Menagerie, empty now of beasts and gods and those monsters known as men, a dark knight lingers.

Most overlook that Hydaelyn’s Warrior of Light illuminates their land not like the sun so much as a candle. Flame in the abyss, friend to the departed, hope which springs from forgotten places. Beneath his mantle this figure proves subtle where tales make him certain, more a guide than leader. Equal measures cruel and kind.

Few know his name.

Maerec Provost is a midlander, pale and scarred. Almost sickly against black hair, black armor. The edges of him prove ungentle, contrasting his movements now. He kneels in a bed of flowers, eyes like old blood scanning where Shinryu let Garlemald’s crown prince fall.

“Your fates are entwined, are they not, eikon-slayer?” Zenos asked not so long ago, cast golden as the day hurtled toward its end. “This dragon, this… embodiment of unbridled despair, born of a desperate man’s burning hatred for the Empire. How _raw_ the raging tempest that churns within its breast. No myth made manifest this, but… a being of pure violence.”

The Warrior had tightened his jaw, had said nothing.

Aye, there was despair in that creature. Perhaps he’d even carved the path which led it here.

_So you harnessed the Eye’s power…_

_A pity you spent it all._

Years past, an Ascian knelt before him. Jaw slack. Breathing hard. Empty of resistance. Lahabrea’s words wavered in the air between them. All he could do was watch as the second of his number fell to auracite.

_His end would not have come to pass had I but…_

Only a man, beneath his mask. Only a man whose orders saw Igeyorhm slain, Nabriales slain. Who remained wounded from his own encounter with Eorzea’s champion. Who in self-flagellation laid bare before the enemy only to receive succor instead.

_What will you do now, hero?_

Swallowed up by the Eye of Nidhogg. Eaten alive to fuel a primal, a shade, an abomination of sacrifice and malice.

To fuel Zenos.

“It fills you even now, doesn’t it?” mused the Garlean, lips curling under dilated pupils. A stolen throne behind him, his hair longer and more vibrant than the immortal’s had ever been. Irises blue, bright with the delicacy of porcelain. Pitted against that trace of green long since flickered out. “The hunger. To bite down on my jugular, to feel the warmth fill your mouth and run over even as you drink deep.”

Maerec could not permit himself to reply. Could not trust what would emerge would do aught but prove him an animal.

Zenos painted his perversion blindly. Zenos dreamed of becoming a target prized above all others.

Zenos was too late and besides the point.

Shinryu approached Midgardsomr in height, gorged on the aether as it was. A spiny collision of black, gold, and red. Stunted limbs, tail of impossible weight trailing behind like a shackle. Spikes bursting row after row from the torso, forbidding any possibility of respite. Its eyes (glittering, myriad) betrayed neither recognition nor thought. Once possessed of mortal hunger, Maerec understood he could do naught but fight to the death for a world that would never recognize him.

Such was this cycle of theirs.

He knows not whether Lahabrea lives. Perhaps he died the moment Thordan struck him down. He might have drowned in the tide of Nidhogg’s rage or burned at Ilberd’s pyre to madness. It could even be that Zenos, ignorant to the last, snuffed him out.

Vain as it may be, Maerec cannot rest without confirmation. 

***

When he finds them they are dull, directionless, severed things.

Before there had been no doubt the wyrm’s remains saw change in circumstance. His legacy proved cunning, patient. Utterly ruthless.

Only husks, now.

Maerec’s caution in reaching out proves unfounded. What his gauntlets touch is sticky. Brittle. Eyes so worn from use they no longer feel natural at all.

Shuttering his own vision, the Warrior extends himself.

Estinien (enthralled as he’d been) described Nidhogg’s hold as a vast and tumultuous sea. Black, churning, ceaseless. What’s left lies so diminished it barely fills the space.

Less a current than a breeze. Heavy as rain. It fills his lungs with tension like unsparked electricity. Potent though Nidhogg’s fury might be, his ability to act has fled.

Searching through aether like an oil slick, like smog, he observes Shinryu in the acid behind his tongue. It cuts the same way nails on slate do, burns through chemicals rather than heat. At its edge, the murmur of countless whispered prayers signals Thordan. Scattered to ash.

Maerec looks, and looks, and does not stop looking.

Eventually he meets success.

Lahabrea’s aether once flared in constant motion—immense and swift and dark as night.

This is solid. Unwavering. Small beyond recognition. 

No color escapes.

When he reaches, uncertain, it constricts upon itself to avoid his touch. 

Stills.

“It’s me,” he whispers aloud. “It’s only me.”

Then, hesitating, Maerec says his name.

When he tries again he makes contact.

The aether is cool, and firm, and laced in mantras of renewal. Zodiark, whole and glittering violet against the void, crosses his mind momentarily. To witness brings no pain or further response.

“I’ve got you,” says the swordsman regardless. “You’re going to get out of here.”

No movement. 

No change.

No voice.

***

Even so, Maerec asks him to hold on. Swears to return.

Maybe Lahabrea hears.

Maybe the gesture is empty.

He could not have reacted less if he were dead.

***

The Warrior of Light leaves carrying his adversary with him.

There is no vessel. Frail though this prison may be its captive lies frailer still. Maerec knows not what would happen should he be carelessly removed.

The sun dips low. Shadows stretch.

Ala Mhigo celebrates its freedom unawares.

***

There are mages who who summon elements and entities to do their bidding. Fighters, healers, scholars-all whose expertise permits them to warp the world at will.

Maerec does not count himself of their number. Even so, there is yet something he can do.

Once upon a time he was exiled from the very land he swore himself to. This champion scorned turned inward and became his own mentor. Fray (whose true name he also knows, perhaps always has known) healed his wounds, offered counsel, guided blows against enemies for satisfaction over any particular cause.

Then Myste, strange and familiar and old beyond his years, stepped from the soulstone with impossible promises. With regrets. With apologies and doubts and lies of the kindest sort.

This is where Maerec turns now, in the twisted fields of Mor Dhona where air yet coils with power.

Crystals pierce the earth where he sits, nestled just beyond Revenant’s Toll. Radiating orange and blue in turns, different aspects according to primals who scarred this land with their image.

These he siphons and makes his own. Harnesses in-turn through the memory of an enemy, a companion, a lover of one-night he might have slain himself.

Sharp cheekbones. Chapped lips. Eyes pale, shadowed in exhaustion oft hidden behind a mask. Sand-colored hair, tangling just past his shoulders. Slighter than robes made him out.

Face exposed. Deliberately clothed in the same white habit Unukalhai favors.

An empty likeness.

The shatter which signifies his simulacrum is complete feels a fair price.

***

 _Follow me,_ he murmurs gently as he knows how. His own aether, breath-on-embers, curls around the Ascian. Offers warmth to one emptied of it.

Nothing.

The true name of Lahabrea is delicate, exact. Its syllables drawn through alien melodies. Horns, strings, chimes plucked from a source improbable as man. This he repeats once, again.

Again. 

As many times as necessary.

His touch sears, impossibly bright against the shape he entreats. Its give is inevitable. Silent.

Blind.

A form torn out of nothing, from which nothing escapes. Bending into itself on the brink of collapse. Barely enough present to call living.

Even so, Lahabrea takes what is offered. He will follow where the Warrior leads him.

***

As soul trickles into body color fades, rhythm changes. Host shifting to match its passenger.

Flesh goes gray, the rhythmic expand and contract of Ascian lungs stuttering like blades over bone. Too fast, too shallow. No tension takes his form, none of the hallmarks of awareness.

The world sways, waves rolling in a storm. Maerec leans back-to-spire. Shuts his eyes. Feels without seeing how aether drains from all that surrounds to feed the immortal. Not a predator but a whirlpool. 

As it was with Myste before.

It is a soundless process but for the uneven gasps Lahabrea takes.

Awareness blurs at its borders, ink diluting in water. His focus branching out, and out, and out across blazing skies. He knows not how long it takes. Nonetheless, for a flickering pulse he does reign himself in.

Maerec looks upon the prone, faltering body of Lahabrea—his aether in spasm. Cracked. Grinding against itself.

A bloodless mouth, opening and shutting like a fish under asphyxiation.

When he says Lahabrea’s name again there is a terrible sound in answer.

Hearing the Ascian’s voice crushed, incomprehensible, from his throat—the Warrior wonders if he’s made a mistake. If there is something wrong with this artificial body.

Pupils blown wide, ringed in green. No awareness behind them, no understanding. Another spasm. Lahabrea’s chest heaves. Doesn’t stop as he is pulled into a sitting position, weight slumped against an armored shoulder. Arms limp, sweat beading cold across new skin.

The Warrior of Light holds his enemy as he retches, struggling to empty himself in a body that has never fed.

There is a faint whistle between each attempt. Sometimes aborted beginnings of moans or whimpers that never manifest, body convulsing around the only support it has. For the minutes this lasts—hot, clear spittle is all Lahabrea can manage.

“I have you,” murmurs the Warrior, so many times he loses track. “You’re out. I have you. I’m here.”

When the immortal weeps it is with the same vacancy. There are no sobs, no changes in his attempts to purge himself of foreign influence. Between each jerk he trembles violently, silently. It’s as if the force of what fills him makes Lahabrea overflow.

Maerec finds himself afraid to stay, afraid to move lest it aid the man in expelling his very soul.

“Stay with me,” he says, knowing no display of power would matter now. He is useless as any beggar, any child, any stranger in the street. “Stay with me.”

When the fit subsides it is not because any affliction has past.

Lahabrea only manages to breathe with a semblance of regularity when consciousness escapes once more.


	2. Chapter 2

There is no tension when Maerec gathers him in his arms. Flesh and bone seem loosely attached, the body rag-limp.

Standing, he notices now how the crystal beside him has gone dull. Colorless.

Below lies barren ground.

Hydaelyn’s champion ignores this and strides purposefully with his burden back toward the Rising Stones.

***

He calls for Y’shtola and Krile upon entering, brings attention to himself before discovery is possible. Familiar tiled floors and walls meet him, adorned sparsely with rugs and wooden furniture. With few windows, light spreads through lamps and scattered candles. 

The Scions look up across the room. Maerec does not stop for them.

Hoary and Coultenet he catches in glimpses, eyes wide with shock devoid of realization. Tataru stands, mouth opening in a cry he does not hear. 

Krile is absent.

“Twelve forefend—“ he hears from behind him, along with hurried footsteps. Y’shtola notes his trajectory for the infirmary and gives chase. “Maerec, what happened? Who is this?”

“Later,” he snaps, and to her credit the miqo’te doesn’t falter. “Can Krile be reached? I may well have killed him.”

Someone—Clemence, he thinks—bolts from the room. Hopefully to make herself useful.

Further movement. Riol intends to follow. F’lhammin. 

Thancred.

 _“Please,”_ he says without turning, “just healers. You’ve my word I’ll explain later, but now-“

Y’shtola gets the door for him. “A crowd is no help,” she calls over her shoulder. “Wait here.”

When her sightless eyes flit back to him, it is a relief to find only questions.

***

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she says, hands hovering over the Ascian’s chest where he lies on a cot. Clean linens. Medicines and salves and bandages stowed in cabinets. Lahabrea has gone paler still, breaths fast and shallow. Y’shtola gives the impression of deep evaluation but does not cast. 

“He is entirely supported by your aether at the moment,” she says. “You’ve provided the frame, but his own— this is _butchery_. I’d be pressed to recognize a natural shape at all. How… did _you_ truly mutilate him so?”

“I don’t know,” answers the Warrior of Light, bringing a hand to wipe over his face. Stops at the brow. Shields himself from scrutiny instead. “I don’t know, I… when I found him something was wrong but then—“

Krile enters, not at a walk but a run. “Pray forgive my delay,” she says, “I heard there was some—oh. Oh my.”

None of them move or speak.

“Maerec,” says Y’shtola, “any information you might offer improves our chances of success.”

A moment passes.

“I need your word,” replies the dark knight, voice tight. “If ever I have given reason to trust my judgment, my abilities, my sacrifices for Hydaelyn and Her people… do not forsake the man before you now. He had no say in this. I would not see him suffer further for my decision.”

Both women are taken aback—of that there can be no doubt. Krile, brow creasing, looks almost insulted. On the brink of a retort. Y’shtola (expression frozen between hurt and terrible misgivings) beats her to it.

“Who is he that you imagine we should consider such a thing?” she asks softly.

Maerec looks her in the eyes. “Please,” he answers, insistent. “Promise me.”

The healers turn to one another in silence.

Krile is the one who breaks it.

“Very well,” she tells him, and no more than that.

Y’shtola presses her lips together, ears twitching uncertainly even as her tail lashes back and forth. 

Eventually, she inclines her head in assent.

A beat follows their agreement, drawn taut as the string of a bow. 

“Lahabrea,” says the Warrior of Light quietly, his stare so steady it suggests a challenge. “You stand before the same Ascian who brought Ultima, who fed the Dragonsong War, who rejoiced in the Seventh Umbral Calamity. You will find no captive vessel or unmatchable power this time… he barely lives.”

The Scions respond with perfect stillness.

“How did you come upon him,” asks Krile in scarcely more than a whisper.

Maerec looks down.

“The Archbishop trapped him within the Eye of Nidhogg… fuel for the primal Thordan,” he says. “After two years, I finally found what remained in Shinryu’s wake. This is all that survives.” Hesitation, then. The words stuck behind his teeth. “I’ve made bodies before, using my own aether and what could be borrowed from the land itself. It wasn’t like this until I called him in. He nearly didn’t answer at all.”

“You saved him,” says Y’shtola, features blank. “You needn’t have even looked, much less… in the state you described, it would have been simple to destroy the Eye itself. He might have wasted away already. There was no need to so much as _check_. What reason could you possibly have to…?”

The Warrior sighs. 

“There are matters I’ve kept from you,” he replies. “Selfishly perhaps, but I did. Lahabrea came to me in Ishgard, before our departure for Azys Lla. We… spoke, of many things. I could not abandon him to such a fate in good conscience.”

Nothing.

“…In truth, none of you know me very well,” Maerec admits. “Not really. You don’t ask questions about who I am, who I was, past the hero you need me to be. But I don’t offer much in the way of answers, either. There are important events you know _nothing_ about. But… I can tell you with certainty that Lahabrea is only a man, and we’ve misread him. His actions have been guided by fear and guilt for ages. What displays we’ve witnessed were borne of madness lining the trap which holds him.”

“Be that as it may,” says Y’shtola flatly, folding her arms across her chest, “it is a madness that has cost _countless lives_. Surely you realize this?”

 _“I’ve_ cost countless lives,” answers the dark knight. “We are all fighting with everything we have to preserve what is most dear to us. Lahabrea is no exception. Now, he is helpless before you. I’ve stood against Ascian designs before and that hasn’t changed. Consider him our prisoner if you must but please… help him survive this.”

Y’shtola sighs even as Krile purses her lips.

“…You do us too little credit,” says the miqo’te softly. “Very well. My aid is yours. Only have a care to keep him well away from Thancred.”

“Agreed,” adds Krile, and the Warrior nods.

“Further,” the lalafell elaborates, “once the current situation has stabilized you _must_ inform the other Scions. If we are to house him, it is necessary that they be made aware. It wouldn’t be right, expecting them to endanger themselves blindly.”

“Aye,” says Maerec, then again, “aye, I know.”

He thanks them.

***

The healers do not discuss for his benefit as they work but for each other. In a way, that's something to be grateful for.

“Horribly imbalanced,” Y’shtola mutters, and as she delves deeper in her exploration she seems to find a point of focus. “Krile, what do you make of this?”

“…If there were a way a creature could be mauled through aether, I expect it would bear striking resemblance,” she answers. “But if the culprit were to linger, like a poison…”

Y’shtola does not shift her focus whatsoever. “Were such force exerted on a mortal undoubtedly it would result in tempering. Fortunately for our patient, these influences have not taken root. They pull, but rather than direct the soul they risk tearing it apart. See you where Thordan’s power holds?”

Krile chews at her lower lip, perhaps nervously. “Diminished, but yes. I see.”

This time, perhaps out of habit, Y’shtola glances to her colleague. “Alone, even with the primal effects weakened as they are I would have concerns in excising them… mind me, lest the worst come to pass.”

“Wait, what do you—“ Maerec begins, only for Y’shtola to raise a hand sharply in his direction.

“You’ve made your request,” she says, “and we shall see it through. Now be still.”

***

Thordan. Nidhogg. Shinryu.

At the beginning, Lahabrea’s fists curl at his sides. Ashen, brow dotted with sweat—he does not open his eyes but there is movement there. Lids flickering like he struggles to catch his own awareness while it slips ever out of grip.

In the first attempts to remove foreign aether, there are thin, breathless sounds without meaning. Like pleas, pained and increasing in volume. Wholly incoherent despite the Echo. From how Krile frowns he knows she recognizes this, too. There is a babbled urgency to the Ascian’s voice they can only ignore.

Lahabrea cries out when they seize, siphon what does not belong—interrupted by his body’s strangled attempt to cleanse itself. Unable still to be sick, his eyes open with the same lack of fixture as before. Hands fumbling without coordination for the bed frame as if to drag himself free.

“Hold him,” demands Y’shtola, and Maerec finds himself obedient—gripping the immortal’s forearms with both hands. As the process continues (blue light of healing gone white with intensity, penetrating flesh to soul itself) Lahabrea shouts, struggles,

_screams_

loud and high and ceaseless until his throat goes raw splits like a wound pouring forth something inhuman an instrument out of tune played mercilessly strings snapping squealing screeching shrieking Lahabrea arches his back hands like claws scrabbling blindly against the mattress for lack of anything to hold onto light piercing aether polluted with a pale and sickly lavender like shards of glass removed inch by inch.

“That’s one,” says Krile eventually, jaw set firm and elbows locked even as Lahabrea’s voice shatters. He falls back, chest heaving, interrupted sometimes by what might be a sob in that same strange tongue. “Y’shtola, a sleeping draught if you would _please?”_

“You think he can manage?”

“I think,” Krile replies severely, “that going further with him thus risks our hearing and focus both. If we can avoid needless torture—“

“Yes,” says the miqo’te, turning to stride toward a cabinet. She plucks a small, round bottle with green fluid inside, unstopping it as she returns.

“It might do him harm?” asks Maerec, and Y’sthola’s lips thin.

“He’s weak by mortal standards,” she tells him. “Regardless, Krile is right. Open.”

Lahabrea, shivering, shakes his head. Doesn’t stop shaking it.

“Maerec,” says Y’shtola. “If he won’t do this willingly I will have to force him. It’s going to get much worse.”

The Warrior meets her gaze. Exhales slowly.

“Give it to me,” he says.

***

Resting on the bed frame, Maerec pulls the Ascian into a sitting position—supported fully against his chest. This meets no struggle beyond continued, wordless refusal.

The Warrior, quiet but firm for all of that, repeats the name he’s been given once more.

There is no change.

Mutely, he finds Lahabrea’s hand with his own. Guides the immortal to hold the draught himself.

“You remember this,” he murmurs, “don’t you?”

No response. But his head stills.

“Like before,” Maerec insists. “It’ll help.”

When he tilts Lahabrea’s face up, brings the bottle to his lips—no aid comes from the man. But he offers no resistance either, and he swallows, and gradually the signs of his distress begin to subside.

“This will be over soon,” says the Warrior of Light.

If it is a lie none bother to correct him.


	3. Chapter 3

The procedure lasts some hours more.

Maerec remains where he is, the Ascian mercifully unconscious in his arms. To remove Nidhogg means inducing something like a fever, bringing the soul to a state foreign will cannot survive. The quiet when they do this is in some ways worse—Lahabrea is too still, too silent. Only vitals endure as a reminder he yet lives.

Shinryu, by comparison, is like extracting needles. A delicate, time-consuming, tedious process that would doubtless prove excruciating were their patient aware. What is left afterward seems tattered, vacant.

Incomplete.

“His aether is overly umbral in nature,” murmurs Y’shtola. “Something isn’t right.”

“What do you mean?” asks the Warrior, only for Krile to close her eyes.

“I wonder…” she says, as if to herself.

The lalafell freezes. Looks up once more.

 _“Gods,”_ she says. “Y’shtola, there’s one left.”

A brow furrowed in response before shock spreads over her features as well.

“That’s why the others couldn’t take hold,” she whispers. “He’s already tempered.”

For a moment, it feels as if the world itself ceases to move.

“…What do you mean, he’s tempered?” asks Maerec at last. “To what?”

Neither healer moves or speaks.

“Maerec,” says Krile eventually, gently, “even if we could overcome the force influencing him in this reduced state, it… the very attempt is like to kill him.”

“What are you talking about?” There is an edge of something like laughter to his words, as if that will somehow prove the situation ridiculous.

“…We cannot return his aether to anything resembling a proper form, anything which would allow him to truly recover, with his soul so claimed,” says Y’shtola. "I suspect that _Zodiark_ holds him yet. I'd go so far as to suggest His mark overshadows the Ascian himself.” She stops, pressing her lips together firmly. Chooses her words. “…Given so little aether to work with it may be possible to infuse an astral charge and restore balance. However, the very weakness which grants such possibility also risks his life—if not what little integrity he has left.”

Maerec says nothing. His hand curls into the Speaker’s robe.

“He told me, before,” the Warrior hears himself say as if from afar, “that the Ascians carry terrible things with them through necessity. That Zodiark isn’t like those gods summoned by Beast Tribes. He… Lahabrea felt he _owed_ something. It wasn’t the same as what we’ve seen in Ifrit’s thralls, or in Lakshmi’s, or any of the others. Are you to tell me that wasn’t him?”

“It’s impossible to say whilst he’s rendered senseless,” says Krile. “There is much and more we remain unaware of. Even so… the difference you observe can come through prayers involved in summoning. These shape a primal’s purpose, and its purpose in-turn shapes the tempered.” A pause. “…Zodiark’s will, if we’ve identified it properly, revolves around preservation. Restoration. It may well be the reason Lahabrea was able to last so long…”

The Warrior exhales slowly. 

Shuts his eyes.

“…I wasn’t bluffing, before,” he says in time. “Even after all this. Should Lahabrea take up arms against this world in pursuit of his Ardor, I would strike him down. What other answer is there?” Turning to his comrades again, he adds, “If freeing him is even remotely possible, I beg you to try. If naught can be done, or the effort would see either of you in peril…”

“Understood,” says Y’shtola.

For a single, fleeting moment her hand touches Maerec’s shoulder before darting back.

It may be he is a distant, caustic thing. Even so, her attempt does not go unnoticed.

***

At this proximity, with his own aether so intertwined, the Warrior cannot help but pay witness.

Krile and Y’shtola together set to gathering necessary astral energies. The force which keeps Lahabrea’s aether so unnaturally dense is of like disposition. One pole forging its opposite state, a shell collapsing inward. This needs be pierced (albeit with care)—allowing tension to release and stabler existence be obtained.

It is akin to gravity dragging matter into a pit. Motion creates stillness, violence forcing all to stay contained at the nexus. Too much pressure, impossibly strong and fast.

Magic grows. Swells. Gathers beneath the fingertips of healers.

Without warning, something gives.

Like air filling a vacuum or the breaking of a dam. Shadows flood and deepen beneath Lahabrea’s form, gradually fading to natural proportion. Infection drained, wound made sterile.

A deep, shuddering breath follows. Then another.

Slowly, in increments, a purple hue takes what remains of the Ascian’s soul.

Y’shtola turns to Krile, mouth agape with power still humming over her bones.

“You didn’t start without me,” she asks, “did you?”

The lalafell, similarly dumbfounded, shakes her head.

***

What remains is tattered and thin, but stable.

When it becomes clear that Lahabrea is not wont to stir, his healers turn their attention back to the Warrior himself.

“Does aught remain of the Eyes?” asks Y’shtola.

“Oh.” It takes but a moment’s search through his storage pouch. Holding both, there is a pause.

Grimace.

“I… think they don’t pose a hazard for further possession—“

The miqo’te plucks them from his hands. Places each on the floor and, in two deliberate gestures, crushes them savagely underfoot.

“Good,” she says. Clipped. “And now we are rid of the vile things.”

***

They explain to him the technicalities, seating themselves on a neighboring bed.

So far as they’ve known (as the Ascians themselves have proclaimed) Hydaelyn and Zodiark are gods. Equal and opposite, adversaries forever circling with the star itself their contested dominion. Nonetheless, Lahabrea’s aether had been bent to unnatural disposition—a property thus far ascribed only to _primals_. Atypical for being imbalanced not toward any element but an umbral charge. In practice, this meant astral energies had forced the natural dimensions of his soul tight past any ability to move or change. An ever-shrinking prison of the mind.

Mayhap the Speaker was bound to Zodiark. What that entails can only be speculated whilst he remains thus indisposed.

Regardless. This claim did successfully prevent Lahabrea’s aether from being forfeit to any other force vying for the prize. It did not, however, leave that point uncontested.

As Y’shtola puts it, the Ascian’s soul might be likened to a scrap of cloth. Each competing entity took an edge of that cloth—pulling hard as it could to claim him. Zodiark proved strongest by far, but in contention were Thordan, Nidhogg, Shinryu and (for the time he was present) likely Zenos as well. The result, in essence, would involve being pulled in five different directions simultaneously. Though Lahabrea survives, aetherial tears show he could not have lasted much longer. Indeed, only the dangerous reduction of all energies involved allowed him to be worked free by mortal hands.

A pause, then, as Krile gives Maerec a curious look. “For one supposedly unversed in the arcane,” she says, “your use of it was nothing less than extraordinary. Near as I can tell you’ve flooded him with aether drawn from both the environment and your own soul stone. Which is to say nothing for the body itself.” Another pause. Her eyes flit, briefly, to the patient. “Even so, Lahabrea’s response remained as one weakened and bound to residual tethers. Any strength he found, they did also. It was these ties which we sought to sever—working loose any outside currents whilst strengthening his core.”

“I… I think I follow,” says the dark knight, eyes on his knees. Gauntleted hands curl there tentatively. “The more life afforded to Lahabrea, the more strength it gave the primal wills which held him. That about right?”

“Just about,” Y’shtola answers. Her lips thin. “Clearly it remained faint enough for us to manage. But Zodiark… never mind the nature of His hold was like nothing I’ve ever seen. I expect our next course would have meant severing pieces of the Ascian’s essence to extract Him properly. It cannot be said with certainty, but for any Spoken race…”

The miqo’te trailes off.

Sighs.

“We might consider it a sort of half-death. I very much doubt Lahabrea would have remembered his own name, let alone aught else of use. He is fortunate indeed that the effect fled of its own accord.”

Maerec looks up at this, horror melting to confusion as his brow furrows.

“Wait… what do you mean in that exactly? Did Lahabrea aid you?”

Y’shtola shakes her head. “Hardly. There can be no deception in his current state—I daresay your guest won’t be capable of stringing a coherent thought together for some time. He is no more than you’ve seen.” 

A beat. 

Then, “It bears further investigation, but my impression is that the response was… inherent somehow. More reflex than choice. Unless you disagree, Krile…?”

The lalafell, pressing a finger to her chin thoughtfully, only frowns. “No,” she says. “No, I do think you have the right of it. But with how fiercely that hold kept its place, for who knows how long? I find it unlikely such tempering would disperse simply because we willed it.”

Silence, then.

Lahabrea fails to react in any way.

“…It is gone though, isn’t it?” asks Maerec at last.

“Indeed,” answers Y’shtola. “What you’ve salvaged remains brutalized beyond any soul I’ve encountered yet, but good or ill—he lacks any will but his own.”

At this, the Warrior’s shoulders dip.

“Thank you both,” he murmurs. “Truly. I cannot say what the morrow might bring, but…”

A quiet, humorless laugh from Krile. 

“I’d warn you of the havoc he’s bound to reign on your head, but in truth he is frail by _our_ measure. Even with continued treatment I doubt he’s like to so much as use an aetheryte soon.”

Y’shtola’s tail twitches restlessly, like fingers drummed across a table. “Maerec… do mind him. Although unlikely to wake imminently, you know better than most the Ascians’ history. With current circumstances, he may use whatever guile remains at his disposal to take advantage.”

Nothing.

Then, “Aye. I’ll keep wary.”

***

When they ask what transpired to prompt such intervention, he can but oblige them. Only fair, given the circumstances.

Maerec recounts how Lahabrea sought him after Haurchefant’s death—certain then the Warrior would forgo restraint in violence. It might have been a sign of depravity, of some plot-in-motion. 

It wasn’t. 

Despite himself, the Ascian only revealed his own humanity. There was sickness, and pain, and a guilt wanting punishment even as duty forbade its pursuit. 

It was too familiar. He refused.

He tells them of their momentary truce, of Lahabrea’s concession to words in place of battle. When Y’shtola asks what they spoke of then, she receives only an exhale. A belated answer, whispered, of how their foes strove to serve what was dearest to them and failed. Of how they cannot accept that failure with how much was entrusted to them. This is an attempt to atone… and if that has been twisted, mayhap it is in-part tempering to blame. He can’t say.

Maerec leaves the remainder of their night unspoken. He only confides that they have both felt at the mercy of circumstance with no way out. Both felt alone—responsible and wanting in that responsibility. Lahabrea had been falling apart even then, and it was nothing to find satisfaction in.

Krile watches, mouth just parted. Stricken. “You might have told us your troubles,” she says quietly. “Did you think we’d turn you away?”

A shrug. “Probably not,” he admits. “Still, I’ve had doubts you’d believe them… or allow the subjects weight. Like I said, you’ve not known me beyond your ‘Hero of Eorzea’… I’m a _mercenary_. Never was better than any craftsman or shopkeep. Just a matter of if others recall.”

Y’shtola shuts her eyes, arms folding over her chest. Brow furrowed. “…Such issues notwithstanding. You don’t suppose the Ascian mislikes his situation enough to quit it?”

A twitch of the lips in reply. “No more than I could,” answers Maerec.

This time, the miqo’te turns—blind gaze drawn narrow in frustration. “And did he plant such notions in your head?” she asks sharply. “You are not the same. You’ve never destroyed worlds, stolen bodies, applied yourself to the ruin of countless lives as though they held no worth of their own.”

“Wouldn’t I though?” snaps the Warrior in response, meeting her accusation directly. Eyes nearly black against the evening dim. “Wouldn’t you? If all you cared for depended on your willingness to sacrifice, if there was only one path you could see—how would you bear it?” 

None of them say anything, and the lull stretches wide between them.

Perhaps some part of him does regret provoking such pain in the face of a friend. It is not enough for Maerec to revoke his words.

“Forgive me,” says Y’shtola at last. She averts her scrutiny. “I have less context than I’d like for these subjects… and tempering remains no small factor.”

Studying her, the dark knight’s chest tightens to swallow his own apology. So he nods instead.

“If Lahabrea sought to provoke violence against himself before, he might do so again,” says Krile softly. “The others must be made aware.”

This time, Maerec shuts his eyes.

“…Thancred deserves to be told of any developments directly,” he says, voice thick. “He’s been through enough.”

Perhaps the Echo is what makes him look, catching Y’shtola just as her hand withdraws.

“I’ll do it,” she declares, and though her voice lacks steadiness it is certain. “Give time for everything to sink in.”

“You don’t have to.” The words are out of his mouth before he can process her offer. “This was my decision.”

“I’ve not forgotten that,” replies the miqo’te. Almost dry. “Even so.”

He stares, the silence articulating his questions better than words could ever manage. 

In the end, Y’shtola sighs.

“Make no mistake. Lahabrea put Thancred through hells. Doubtless he’ll be upset by these developments… but do _try_ to remember he cares for you a great deal. As do we all.” Her jaw is tight, focus fixed on him as if in challenge. “He will do better with time to decide his response. I suspect neither of you would benefit from the initial outburst.”

It occurs to him, briefly, that for all her knowledge Y'shtola isn’t much older than him.

“You have my gratitude,” says the Warrior of Light. Then, “Both of you. I know this has been difficult, and strange, and there’s no promise it’ll even make things any better, but… but it does mean a great deal to me.”

A small, delicate hand comes to rest against his knee. 

“In fairness, you’ve done a great deal for us as well,” answers Krile, a smile ghosting crooked across her face. “For the entire star, if we’re honest. But much good as you’ve done, it doesn’t mean you need always be certain. Or alone.”

***

Somehow, he does smile back.


	4. Chapter 4

They tell the others before dawn. 

Y’shtola, true to her word, meets Thancred privately in his own quarters. She avoids looking back as she leaves—head held high despite the dip in her shoulders. “Do not expect either of us for some time,” she’d said. “Rest assured I will inform you where things stand on the morrow.”

He let her go.

Those who remain now turn to the Solar.

Urianger. Alphinaud. Alisaie. Unukalhai. Tataru.

They are none of them surprised by this assembly, given the urgency and discretion of hours past. Its contents prove another matter altogether.

The Warrior of Light explains himself yet again. Slower this time, taking care to offer neither more detail nor less. He begins with the Forgotten Knight, keeping his voice even and his expression guarded. 

Alisaie interrupts several times. Although Alphinaud urges her quiet, his own frown grows deeper as revelations unfold. Urianger listens in silence, impassive as Unukalhai beside him. Tataru (for her part) seems nothing less than shocked.

All of them are exhausted. All of them have reservations. It is a relief when Krile takes over to address the technicalities of what she and Y’shtola discovered in the Ascian’s aether. What they’ve wrought.

These circumstances mislike them. Nonetheless there is opportunity to learn, and if Lahabrea is to survive then best it be under their watch. Besides, if he is a man indeed and not some creature of unbridled malice as they’d supposed—killing him whilst injured and unconscious seems an ugly thing. Never mind the significance of tempering.

Maerec insists he take watch, given past experience in and outside combat both. Least until Lahabrea wakes. When pressed, he confesses that in spite of everything some part of him hopes (even suspects) his presence will provoke less chaos than another. Be it handling combat or panic, the Warrior has resources at his disposal others lack.

“Panic? You’re certain this is Lahabrea we’re talking about?” asks Alphinaud.

For all that the man had smiled when they fought at the Aetherochemical Research Facility, there could be no denying the way his voice broke. The lengths he took to mask it as anger. He’d hesitated to enter the fray, followed Igeyorhm’s lead, fought with movements fast and frantic as mounds of flesh pulsed around them.

_YOU’LL NOT DEFEAT ME AGAIN!_

Maerec can’t meet the Academician’s eye as he affirms.

***

Days pass. Lahabrea does not stir. 

His guard allows others to take shift only as necessity dictates.

***

Sometimes Krile or Y’shtola will join him, further repairing what damage they can find. “As you can see, his condition remains tenuous,” the lalafell explains at a questioning glance. Her tone comes pragmatic, though not cold. “Should survival be our present goal, I doubt such attentions will go amiss.”

Her lips form a tight, uneasy smile as the Warrior thanks her.

She gives no reply. Even so, she checks in regularly and devotes herself without reservation.

***

It occurs to Maerec that there may be a kind of justice that Lahabrea should have no greater aetheric ability than Thancred. He would rather neither of them suffered such a fate.

The rogue makes himself scarce. According to Y’shtola, they are both the better for that.

“He’s distraught,” she states flatly. “Horrified, hurt, furious… much as you might expect. But I was able to persuade him not to leave the Scions. Once that was decided he saw no point in departing, either. His location made little enough difference before.”

She has no need to speak her accusations aloud with them standing plain before him.

“I’ll not allow any harm to befall Thancred,” the Warrior tells her quietly. “If I doubted I could keep you all safe, you must know—“

“It isn’t about _safety_ , Maerec,” answers Y’shtola with no small amount of exasperation. “I appreciate your concern, but quite frankly the issue here is what’s already been done.”

Silence, then.

Eventually he tries once more.

“I’m grateful he’s chosen to stay despite this,” says Hydaelyn’s champion. “Really. Whatever will or motive behind it, the harm Lahabrea committed is significant. And… I do recognize I’m demanding a great deal of faith. Of our number, Thancred has the greatest claim to injury. I could hardly grudge him if he chose to despise me.”

Y’shtola sighs.

“He thinks you’re a terrible idiot. The rest is as I told you… I would not presume to guess his current feelings beyond that.”

The Warrior inclines his head in mute assent.

Several moments pass.

“It is no small matter that he remains,” she adds more gently. “Whatever disagreements we hold—you do have us.”

***

Urianger procures auracite by the second day. Purchased rather than made, gathering expenses through teleportation and crystal alike. He seems haggard as he offers his acquisition to Maerec, lanky form just-slouched beneath his robes.

Luminous. Precise. White like the sun through fog. It rings with a delicate, almost hollow sound against fingertips. Still heavy in spite of this.

“Tis merely a precaution,” says Urianger when faced with protest. “Though the Ascian remains indisposed at present, we cannot know his mind thereafter. I would not see thee unprepared for incidents wherein Lahabrea rejects thy kindness in favor of the Ardor. ‘Twould not be unexpected, but nor can it be abided.”

Maerec’s discomfort must have shown on his face. It takes little enough time for the elezen to add, “Of course thou needst not use such measures lest circumstance prove them necessary. I would, however, have thee and this star alike secure.”

What can he do but accept?

***

Reticent even by the standards of a face concealed, Unukalhai has taken his instructions to remain distant with surprisingly little complaint. Over a year prior, learning how Ascians involved themselves in calamities had left the boy shaken. Conflicted. Betrayed. It was too much, he’d admitted following the revelation, to despise Elidibus as he knew him. Whatever his crimes—the Emissary saved his life. Raised him between eons of slumber. Preventing further death and destruction was a good lesson, even if reconciling its source posed a challenge.

For the other Paragons his opinion proved more difficult to define.

He finds Maerec taking supper alone in the common area, elbows propped on a table. The _shakshouka_ before him is mostly finished, pan cool and exposed between scattered egg, pepper, and tomato. A kindness on Tataru’s part. There is weariness just skirting exhaustion to his posture, keeping the Warrior’s back bent and his lips drawn thin.

“I had hoped to find you here,” says Unukalhai quietly, taking an opposing seat. He keeps his hands in his lap, seems unsure whether to keep his gaze low or meet his companion’s eyes. Maerec blinks. The boy continues. “There is something I would pass your way.”

A soft _tap_ against the tabletop. Unukalhai withdraws his hand.

“What’s this?” Maerec asks slowly, realizing the answer even as the words depart his mouth.

White plaster, gently contoured. A pair of round, black holes. Beak short and curved to suggest a nose. With fangs absent there is naught beneath.

“It cannot replace what was lost,” says Unukalhai. “Even so, this may be better than nothing. It wouldn't surprise me if Lahabrea wanted it upon waking.”

“…Thank you,” answers the Warrior of Light, pulling the mask toward him. Makes his examination. “I suspect what he had was particular to his office. This won’t offend?”

Elidibus’ ward shakes his head. “As I was informed, this is a citizen’s mask. If there are any connotations to be had, it will be that the Speaker has been relieved of duty for the time being.”

A pause.

Unukalhai exhales.

“If standing bare remains difficult for me, I imagine for him it will be worse.”

***

Maerec finds himself reminded of Zenos.

Candles flicker in Dawn’s Respite. Lahabrea remains pale and still.

_Man should fight for the joy of it. To live, to eat, to breed—lesser beasts snap and howl at one another for this. Only man has the wisdom and the clarity to embrace violence for its own sake._

Irises blue, wide, expressionless. His smile closer to an animal snarl. All aspects of him bright and immaculate and cold.

_Lahabrea is a warrior. He fought. He fell._

So said the Emissary, but he was absent when his colleague flinched in the face of kindness.

He remains absent still.

The Eikon-slayer shuts his eyes.

Lahabrea watched as Maerec murdered Igeyorhm beside him, could not bring himself to speak for several moments. There was a faint tremor when he tried.

The dark knight knows that were he to rouse himself in Zenos’ keeping, alone and at Garlemald’s mercy, he would expect no better than Krile endured. Others had been tortured, slain. Stripped of gifts and discarded as refuse.

There was a time he might have slaughtered Lahabrea without second thought. Fought with the thrill of a righteous crusade hammering in his throat. Confident in the simplicity of his mission. Such methods were not so different, perhaps, from Zenos.

For their last encounter columns of fire dragged across the floor, whirled through the air. Punctuated by words harsh and desperate.

_YOU'VE MEDDLED **ENOUGH!**_

Perhaps it is foolish to believe he might bring comfort under such circumstances.

And yet.

_...I would keep you too, given the option._

Despite everything, Lahabrea had smiled for him. Not a taunt or a sneer but in relief. The hollows underlining his gaze seemed less severe and whatever conflict bound them together evaporated as the Ascian slowly, deliberately kissed him time and again.

An exhale.

Circumstances have changed.

The path ahead remains uncertain as it has ever been.

***

Awareness comes in a voice.

Distant, unintelligible at first. Rough and deep and quiet. He recognizes this. He does not know why.

_In traveling, I’ve come across my share of strange mounts. Lanners, kamuys, voidsent. Dragons even. First, though, were the Nightmares._

Something in him aches. There are holes and fractures and torn edges of what ought be whole. Claws and teeth and hands slick with gore inside him. Filling his body (his soul) with what does not belong. Threatening to expel self from self.

He remembers an impossible pressure. Ocean forced into a bottle, vessel shattering forced back again by hands from without. Water seeping like blood on glass. Glass piercing skin.

Gone. 

The shape holds, albeit tenuously.

_Heard you and yours provided those to the beastmen… beautiful, wild things. Transformed by the presence they basked in._

His mouth is dry, papery. Skull to chest to limbs he is leaden.

_They can be kind, given the right circumstances. But they’re not the same._

Air on his face.

His office.

The Ardor.

Lahabrea opens his eyes to arched, stone ceilings. Unfamiliar. At the edge of his vision a lamp sits comfortably atop an end table. Torso covered by sheets.

His mask is missing

He tries to sit. The body responds. Everything tilts and blurs around him, focus lost in a blend of grays and browns and golds and blacks—

“Hey!”

Hand stretching toward him, stopped short.

Lahabrea takes a breath. 

Another.

Mask.

On reflex he reaches to create. Something constricts, lungs crushed empty, vision blurring further in shadows that flicker. Bone scraped clean in search of marrow, in search of—

“Easy. _Easy._ You’re alright.”

Gripped firmly on each shoulder. Steadying.

Maerec. 

The Warrior, Hydaelyn’s…

Pulse thrumming in his temples, his ears. Drowning out the world. Too many commands, too many mouths feeding off him nowhere to escape no legs to flee bound on all sides

_(not the first time, the First Beast belonged to him too incomprehensible tongues chewing jabbering warped sigil of the orator how fitting that it should find him again)_

and nothing manifests. 

Nothing could. His fingers, his palms, the universe itself at risk of shaking violently to pieces. It’s too much.

He stops.

Slowly, by increments, language returns.

“…is it?”

On some level he recognizes that he should be asking questions instead. Should be making sense of this. Reality seems disjointed, fluid.

“You were trapped in one of the Eyes of Nidhogg," Maerec explains. "Thordan took you. It’s been maybe two years since we fought at Azys Lla… the wyrm took hold of another shortly after and fled. You’d changed hands several times before I found you, but you _are_ safe here.”

Silence.

Lahabrea finds he cannot, at first, connect the words to memories. To images. Too much at once, bereft of meaning. It returns in instants. A mortal aspiring to godhood, armored form scarcely recognizable as human at all. Igeyorhm crying out in pain and terror (there only on his behalf, she came to keep him _safe_ and it cost her… it cost…) as the blade struck her down as Thordan struck him down as the Warrior watched as—

“…The Scions know of you. When you’d arrived, beyond tempering your aether was polluted. I think it would’ve killed you. Out, now. All of it. The body’s of my making but rest is yours. No foreign influence. Long as you don’t try for more calamities you’re under my… under _our_ , protection. Truly.”

Laughter, high and strained, catches his attention. There is an odd, strangled quality and as it swells as it rocks him in place as it hitches as it gradually begins to roll down his cheeks he cannot but recognize it as his own. 

There is nothing he can do. Not like this.

His mask is missing. His god is missing. His-

The condition is no less absurd than expecting a serpent to run, limbless. To demand mathematical formulas from an infant.

A hand that might belong to him covers his face, wavers briefly between eyes and mouth _(row upon row opening and closing and opening and closing clothing the creature which crawled through Amaurot and fed he knew it for his own)_ but he owes more than this, he is Lahabrea and this is his sworn duty so he conceals his tears instead.

Half-released, he does not see but hears the brief fumbling tries to ignore himself and the sounds he is powerless to contain.

“Here. Sorry, should have given it straight away.”

A mask, not his own. No one’s. Blank and unbound signature of the Ancients. Of all he has left behind.

He takes it quickly (his grip lands lower than intended fails at first to close as he wills), struggles to keep himself even enough to cover his face.

“What is it?” the Warrior repeats, and says his name, and this time it is not an ache but a blade twisted deep inside him and his face is slick the form he wears curling inward to stop itself from trembling none of this belongs to him none of this is his but his name but his name—

Arms firm around him. Chin pressed to his scalp, his forehead brought to a chest he knows. Cloth rather than armor.

Maerec doesn’t say anything more, only holds him steady. Only holds him up.

The Warrior of Light.

If Lahabrea stiffens it does not last long. Gradually, inevitably he relinquishes what small autonomy he has to accept this support. He cannot sustain such awareness long after all.

_You are safe here._

_I’ve got you._

Then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! Hopefully future ones will be back in a rhythm.


	5. Chapter 5

Next time, he is sluggish. Silent.

The healers return to conduct their evaluation. Lahabrea does not resist as Krile checks the dilation and contraction of his pupils. Uses a mirror to peer delicately down his throat. The Speaker’s expression remains slack, his gaze unfocused—leaning against his adversary to remain upright.

Y’shtola takes it upon herself to examine his aether. Whatever distaste she holds for him, she nonetheless communicates each step with Lahabrea in advance.

“I’ll need to make contact to see how you respond,” says the miqo’te, her tone clipped. Professional. “This should be painless. If aught causes issue, you need only take hold of the Warrior and he’ll alert me. Now on the count of three…”

Lahabrea doesn’t meet her eyes, doesn’t nod, doesn’t give any indication of having heard. When Y’shtola’s aether glides feather-light over his own, Maerec feels the Ascian flinch nonetheless. A pause from Y’shtola before slowly, in increments, Lahabrea eases back. Permits her to continue. He keeps his attention averted throughout, devoid of expression.

They determine his lack of speech stems from no physical ailment. Nor is it the consequence of some injury sustained by soul itself.

“As best I can tell, he’s fully aware,” Y’shtola explains. “Under other circumstances one might be inclined to doubt his sincerity but as things stand—give him time. He’s been through an ordeal of two years. Even for an immortal, the Eye will have been trying.” Another pause. She turns to the subject of her discussion, exhaling quietly through her nose. “Lahabrea. Your position here is somewhere between ward and prisoner. While your life _is_ in our hands at present, so long as you fail to invite issue here you’ll have no reason to expect ill of us. It may be we have no cause to anticipate honor, gratitude, or decency for our parts in this, but Maerec has entreated us on your behalf. Give him reason to regret it and you may rest assured _he_ will not be the subject of our ire.”

Lahabrea, blank and motionless, offers no answer.

***

Krile lingers when her colleague departs.

She takes the nearby stool. Face downturned, expression taut.

Hesitating.

“I am not so directly experienced in this conflict of yours as the others,” she says at length, hands resting in her lap. “Not indifferent, mind. Much of what transpired only came before my arrival. Whilst the Isle of Val did fall by Ascian influence—Emmerololth lies long since vanquished.” A beat. Lahabrea does not react, Warrior’s arm encircling his shoulders. Krile shakes her head. “…I can only err on the side of caution with those facts I possess. But whatever it may be worth, I should tell you I’d not see more suffering in this situation than can be avoided. Truly.”

Nothing at first.

Eventually Lahabrea shuts his eyes. Ducks his head.

“Thank you, Krile,” Maerec says softly.

The Lalafell purses her lips.

“It’s no trouble,” she replies. Stands. “There is room enough for uncertainty under these conditions. No point in making it worse.”

***

Eventually and alone, he makes time to approach Thancred.

The door is shut. Maerec knocks.

Movement out of sight. No greeting as the way opens.

Thancred looks haggard, shadows cast under dark eyes. Restless. His stubble more noticeable than it was. The bandana he favors in-place.

His expression sharpens on the Warrior of Light. Lips pressed thin as he exhales through his nose.

“What?” the rogue asks shortly, simply.

“Hey,” answers Maerec, and by comparison it sounds terribly uncertain. “I’ve wanted to check in on you. If it’s too soon just say the word, but I—“

Thancred only turns. Retreats into his room, beckoning over one shoulder for his guest to follow.

The Warrior complies.

The door shuts.

No evidence of conquests—recent or otherwise. Books of song, of history, of culture and politics and regional fauna all stored neatly on their shelves. Maps spread beside notebooks across a wooden desk. Overwhelmingly functional rather than decorative. 

“Y’shtola made it clear she didn’t want us coming to blows,” says Thancred flatly, back to him. Shoulders tense, hands at his sides. “Not that it isn’t tempting. For bringing him back, for letting her break the news instead… I _have_ thought about it.”

Silence.

After several moments, Maerec murmurs, “You can, you know.”

A snort, too rough for a laugh.

Thancred meets his gaze.

“Like I said. I gave my word.” A pause. “That you struck him down twice, once on my behalf, is no small part of why I’m still here. I fully expect you to do so again if the occasion calls for it.”

“Aye,” the Warrior replies. No louder. “If it comes to that.”

A nod, and Thancred sits heavily on his cot. Simple make, plain but rumpled.

“Let us be plain, then,” he declares. “You expect me to be angry? I am. You want to know if I find the situation disturbing? I do. What, exactly, do you hope to accomplish in seeing me?”

Maerec leans against the desk carefully, studying the floor.

Looks up again.

“I haven’t forgotten what he did to you,” says the dark knight. “I want you to know—it isn’t something I take lightly.”

“Oh, is that so?” Thancred replies, eyes glinting. “Because funnily enough, I don’t recall telling _you_ enough that there’s room for much otherwise.”

“You said before that you had no memory of it,” says Maerec. His fingers curl in on themselves. “If there is aught you would have me know—“

“Let me enlighten you as to one thing,” the scion interrupts. “I remember nothing of what I did while possessed. I was not _aware_ in any proper sense. That is not to say my time as his thrall was empty, or that it was pleasant, or that the damage is limited to aether and awkward conversations at parties. You have no right to demand my clarification, so if that’s what you’re after you can get out.”

“Do you truly think so little of me?” snaps the Warrior. “Speak or don’t if it suits you! I wanted to make sure you were well, and… and to offer what assurance I can. Nothing more.”

“You have _taken,”_ says Thancred bitterly, “what assurance I’d already found and disposed of it. I’m not well. You’ve done me a disservice. There’s your answer.”

Maerec exhales. Bows his head.

Silence stretches between them. 

“…I do appreciate the concern,” Thancred adds softly. Eventually. Then, “Look. It was… the whole affair was a fever dream. Fingers probing wounds while you’re powerless to protest. I would hear… _see_ things that were never mine. Head filled with his thoughts while I lacked strength to so much as breathe. There were no words I could say against him. I couldn’t think. I _knew_ I couldn’t think.”

“Thancred” says the Warrior, “whatever his circumstances—I will see him dead before you or any other of our companions suffer such again. I swear it.”

A beat.

Thancred sighs.

“Well that’s something, at least,” he says. Smiles wearily. “Though as you suggested, it may not come to that. Perhaps we’ll see your mercy rewarded yet. Dense decision or not.”

***

The rogue warns him not to let his guard down. Not to underestimate their foe.

Though Maerec agrees to this as well it coils in his chest and sinks there. 

He can but remember the way Lahabrea blindly followed where he led.

***

Most time is spent under the Warrior’s watch, but not the whole of it. There is a reason why. He can’t seize it.

Flickering candlelight on stone. Further healing… Sharlayans. Under scrutiny by various elezen.

Sometimes it all seems slow. Muffled. Submerged. Others are too loud and too clear and he catches himself curling inward. Insectile. Willing himself still.

Let it pass.

Let it pass.

Sleep is a gamble, as it has been. Gaps in awareness or dreams of endless teeth.

“He is less unpleasant than last time, at the least,” says a boy, and the girl who makes his double hushes him, and Lahabrea wills himself smaller as if that will let him escape notice.

Naught remains.

Perhaps there is a blessing in that.

***

At a certain point, none can deny Lahabrea wastes himself.

They’ve been bringing simple fare for him to eat and drink, given the body’s first impulse to reject its contents. Water, stone soup. Toast. He made no move to consume them initially, and though Alisaie speculated perhaps he didn’t need it this was swiftly debunked by Y’shtola. His current form is material, she explains. The trials it has undergone thus far are taking their toll. In consequence the Ascian _is_ thinning, and under the circumstances this does him no favors.

(“Please,” Maerec asked softly, alone and aiding Lahabrea in his grip on a piece of bread. “Don’t attach more to it than you must. Just one foot in front of the other… you’ll die if you don’t eat. Don’t make me watch that.”

Something resembling focus, however brief. Eyes bright and fixed and unseeing. Slowly, reluctantly, Lahabrea parted his lips.

When he chewed it was like an automaton. Progress nonetheless.)

Awake, he is listless. Asleep he alternates between fitful and unresponsive.

If he screams, there is some relief it is less than at his arrival. 

For all that he remains attended with a measure of care, the immortal grows closer and closer to wraith each day. His complexion seems wan, eyes and cheeks taking a hollow turn. His edges are whet against the air itself and the result is a man too-sharp for the skin that holds him.

Perhaps it is misguided. His affliction has never been physical.

Maerec returns to him with a pen and sheet of paper.

“You don't have to talk if it's not your wish,” he says quietly. Lahabrea stares at the implements as though transfixed. “Or if you can’t. But I’d make sure you’ve a means available, should you need it.”

He takes them. He goes still.

Behind his mask the Speaker presses lips thin. Shuts his eyes to the world. Places the implements on the mattress beside him and wordlessly, cautiously extends what remains of his aether in invitation instead.

The Warrior studies him. Sits by his bed as he has these past weeks. Gently as he can unfurls himself to grasp what is offered—threads of molten iron flickering against a shroud.

Corners in what ought be fluid. Tattered holes where continuity once flowed. If the borders before were worn, now they are frayed nigh beyond any capacity to hold a shape. Soul no longer stained black but the violet proves inconsistent. Parts fade near gray, or bleached, or darkened. Few can be found at the richness glimpsed one night in Ishgard.

Listening hurts—countless voices worn hoarse from shrieking. Echo of a world vivisected, heart and lungs exposed to those they were never meant for. The roughness of fingernails split in the process of shredding flesh and bone. Flame suffocating under the weight of humidity, air itself enough to drown in. Men beg, women shout, children sob and all of them are and are not Lahabrea.

The man who called himself Lahabrea.

They do not speak a single language. Heavy, nasal, chiming, guttural, melodic, barking, whispered. The Echo has not fled but against such a cacophony it takes time to understand, to recognize.

_…bother? Why did you bother? Why did you…?_

Something twists and sinks behind Maerec’s ribs, leaving him cold. Stealing his breath.

Though thick and clumsy, he knows that voice.

“Praise Halone,” he hears himself murmur. “I thought…”

_ WHY DID YOU BOTHER? _

Human mouths feasting on human flesh. Lahabrea, masked for his office, crouches nude over his own dying body. Green eyes stare sightlessly ahead as he drags himself closer, sinks teeth into his own jugular to tear muscle and skin free together. Gore stains him nose to chin in a stream, dribbles down his chest. He chews like an animal, loud and wet and greedy. His chest, the chest of his victim, continues to rise and fall before him.

The name has escaped Maerec before he realizes he’s made a sound, and the scene goes still.

“This isn’t real,” he says (or thinks he says). “It’s alright.”

 _(It’s alright. It’s alright. It’s alright._ Echoed through that sea of voices—laughing, shouting, mocking, sobbing. Mouths forming shapes mute against the night.)

_ WHY DID YOU BOTHER, **WARRIOR OF LIGHT?** _

“I wanted you safe” he answers hastily. “Look, I… I didn’t want you to die in there. Not like that.”

_ IRRELEVANT. _

_(Fool. Imbecile. Selfish._

_**Selfish.** )_

Tears streaming under the cannibal’s mask. Blood seeping from the sacrament’s grin.

The dark knight steels himself. Wills himself closer.

“This isn’t real. You don’t have to do this.”

Hands, burning deep and bright, find hands. Close over that deeper red and remain firm.

A shudder consumes Lahabrea.

 _I…_ says the glutton or the feast, _I… don’t believe it matters anymore. It’s been so long. Too much._

Maerec pulls the Ascian close, coats himself in the blood of his enemy to hold him.

He feels Lahabrea breathe once, again.

Again.

“What can I do to make this easier?” he asks quietly, stroking the immortal’s hair as if he himself is clean. “None here mean for you to be tortured.”

More laughter, distant. Like a bell.

Then, nothing. 

Not so much as a heartbeat.

The hair raises along Maerec’s arms, the back of his neck.

He remains.

_I don’t… I want not to be._

_When I close my eyes I remember._

_Help me to empty myself._

_Let me sleep without—_

Buildings collapsing upon buildings collapsing upon people. A sound felt as much as heard, like sand stripping features down to skull to brain to the barren space left behind. A beast bearing his sign speaking nonsense as it rained horror upon the land. Corpses cradling each other for some last illusion of comfort.

Eyes that would not blink. Monsters chained by the weight of their own nature. The sneering triumph of broken things that would never care to remember. 

_Give me freedom to escape dreaming._

_You needn’t fear I’ll seek more than that._

A long silence falls between them.

“We have remedies,” whispers Maerec. “I can ask. But if you fill your time with such things alone, it… I do want to see you live, Lahabrea.”

Fingers curl like claws into his back.

 _USELESS,_ say the dead of ages.

 _USELESS,_ says Lahabrea of the thousand tongues.

 ** _USELESS,_ **and it is nearly a wail—high and desperate and shattered over itself.

It takes but a moment for Maerec to grasp that he is not the target of this accusation.

Nidhogg followed Thordan, and in the wyrm’s wake there was something resembling quiet.

One of three who remained. The least of three. 

Whatever his past achievements, Lahabrea’s failure defines him now. No number of reprimands made any difference. 

(The fires which engulfed their star were his fault. They trusted him to keep them safe. It should never have gone so far.)

Unforgivable that he should sacrifice all the world but not himself. Unforgivable that he should cease his efforts when such shortcomings cost lives beyond counting.

Yet he was one of three who remained, and he had thought if nothing else _that_ was irreplaceable.

When Shinryu ignited the Eyes once more, Lahabrea understood judgment had been passed.

They weren’t coming for him. His only remaining value is as fodder.

The connection breaks.

It takes a moment for Maerec to re-orient himself. He is too slow to stop the Ascian as he wrenches himself away, stumbles from his bed. One step, another. He staggers and finds his knees.

“Wait!” the Warrior cries, standing. This is also useless.

The room is too large, its exit out of reach. Lahabrea drags himself to the wall to avoid further collapse, and with his back pressed to it knots his fingers in his hair. 

Begins to twist.

His knuckles have gone pale. Painful. His breath sounds like a saw blade, too fast and too loud and too uneven. His eyes are wide, gleaming, utterly blind to the world.

“Stop that!” 

There is no conscious choice that leads Maerec to kneel before Lahabrea, to take each wrist in-hand. To pull him away. He doubts there is much thought from the reaction, either.

The Ascian _fights_ him. Or tries to. A hitch and catch in his throat, teeth bared, nails digging into his own scalp this time as his arms shake with the effort of staying course.

But Lahabrea employing his full strength is, at the moment, no match for the Warrior of Light.

Something gives. 

Tension leeches from the immortal’s grip before disarming him altogether. A sob, choked and without dignity, spasms through him as his limbs go slack. Another follows, and then another. His head slides forward. What control he had over himself flees.

Maerec lets go, brings his arms instead around the slighter man. There is no resistance this time, no protest.

“Easy,” he says, because apologizing won’t do any good. There are no promises he could make that would ring true. “Easy now.”

It isn’t alright.

Saying as much won't make it so.


	6. Chapter 6

In truth, Lahabrea doesn’t want to be awake anymore.

They monitor the administration of sleeping draughts. Once a day becomes standard with effects lasting several hours. Granted aid, their charge drowns himself in slumber. If they are left uneasy for it the alternative seems little better.

(This isn’t like Ishgard. Lahabrea looks hollow, drained. Incapable of keeping his own attention. Overwhelmed by a vessel shrinking to meet him.

Maerec threads fingers through the immortal’s hair, thumb passing back and forth over strands of gray. He untangles knots, combs through as if such gestures might help him breathe easier. 

Nothing changes.)

The Warrior fears overindulgence, fears finding some sterile parody of Zenos lost to his own hand. Krile keeps the store locked when not in use as a precaution. 

If Lahabrea is capable of circumventing this he seems disinclined.

(It hurts more, in some ways, knowing his state draws from choice rather than necessity. Awareness has proven a bitter, monstrous thing the Speaker can no longer stomach. 

Maerec murmurs against silence those years spread between them. Doma and Ala Mhigo, Ilberd and Hraesvelgr. The peace attempt at Falcon’s Nest and the massacre at Rhalgr’s Reach. 

Lahabrea does not stir.)

Most of his hours are spent unconscious. The rest he uses to sustain himself. This is done with barest adequacy and no interest. If the Ascian wants for potions his request comes passively—sitting at the cot’s edge, eyes down. Waiting for what must come next.

(Often, during such times, the Warrior finds his side. It is an empty experience, and mute, and there can be little wonder Lahabrea deteriorates so. Books, he thinks, may lend some distraction. When the Speaker shows no preference Maerec selects _Narrow Road Through The Deep Grass_ and reads aloud.)

Communication falls short. Lahabrea fails to respond to subsequent attempts at reaching through aether. Pressing only leads him to withdraw entirely, expression glazed, fists clenched. While the spiritual effect is perhaps brittler than that shell found in Nidhogg’s Eye—it remains a clear answer.

Maerec lets him be.

***

People underestimate chocobos. Their favored foods might include roots and gyshal greens, but tales of hatchlings consuming clutchmates are not unfounded. The birds are omnivores. They’ll not shy away from a fight, or blood, or an offering of fresh meat.

Maerec doesn’t hesitate to call Nomad, his steed of choice. Feels naught but relief as the beast trills and kneels for him to mount. Dark feathers shift under barding and with a rustle of wings they’re off.

 _No man is without limits,_ suggests a familiar voice. Its lilt is casual, its tone rasping. Fray. _If you really are set to follow this path it’s high time you found yourself an outlet._

_Responsibly, of course._

The Sons of Saint Coinach have put out a request to the Adventurer’s Guild. Several gigas have been sabotaging their research, destroying settlements set up in pursuit of the Crystal Tower. Executing researchers. What survivors have managed to explain suggests this lot believe it’s a holy site—not for tampering by Spoken races.

It’ll serve his purpose well enough.

They are tall, ruddy creatures. White hair tapering to red, then red limbs fading black at the hands and feet. Intricately crafted armor with gold and turquoise jewelry. Ritual scarring, circle with a central indent for each brow. Teeth lining lipless mouths.

Not beasts. Not dumb. Not inherently wicked, if brutal.

It’s enough that they attack him first.

Swords and staves, cudgels and shields. Maerec feels their intent just before each blow, dodges with a step this way or that. Like a dance. His blade moves with the grace of the inevitable, traveling as if through water with each upswing before plunging to skin muscle bone arteries organs withdrawing smooth and smeared its momentum already carrying into the next blow. The air is soon saturated in blood and the shrieks of the dying, his own heart carrying him forward forward from body to body he tastes iron and sweat his mail almost claustrophobic beneath aether-stained skies.

For now it’s a relief to be met with such hatred. The troop snarls, bands together. Searches for weaknesses in his form just as he does theirs. They don’t turn to flee. They don’t beg. They are willing to kill and die for what is dear to them just as he is.

Just as he is.

***

Maerec seats himself on a stone in the aftermath, slick with gore. Nomad, black eyes gleaming with hunger, cocks his head at the corpse of a giant. 

“Mad, leave it be,” says the Warrior. Exasperated. The chocobo turns to his master, whistle pitched low and plaintive. A foot half-raised defiantly—prepared to disembowel. 

Maerec huffs. Beckons, clicking his tongue. Nomad’s gaze flits to his prospective meal before he obeys, wandering instead to the hyur who calls him. Some rummaging through the saddlebag and Maerec offers a mimett gourd. This is swiftly and messily crushed, leaving the bird to peck fragments from the ground instead. Maerec, his companion thus occupied, settles back and surveys the carnage in his wake. 

Flesh, earth, and crystal. Ravaged by man and elements, baking in the sun. 

_It’ll do for now I suppose,_ Fray murmurs. _You could do with better targets than this._

“I know,” Maerec replies aloud, then stops. Presses his lips firm. 

_Refreshing to be angry, sometimes. Easier than the alternative by far. Not that I expect you to leave that well enough alone, but… let it be a moment._

_These poor sods had the misfortune of making themselves available. If you had your prey of choice—_

“Not prey,” the Warrior interrupts himself on reflex. Pinches the bridge of his nose with gauntleted fingers, fouling the space further. “Fuck Zenos.” 

_Aye,_ Fray responds amicably. _Fuck Zenos. But my point stands. Who would you take instead?_

A pause. 

A sigh. 

The air is hot and stagnant over Mor Dhona. He hates it.

“I keep thinking how if I’d done something sooner, it wouldn’t be like this,” says Maerec, for no one’s benefit but his own. “Two _years._ Maybe he wasn’t well before either, but the man’s immortal. That’ll be a blink for someone like him, yet… gods. They were eating him alive for that long and no one came.” 

The two of them sat side by side once on a bed at the Forgotten Knight. Lahabrea had his elbows propped on his knees, words he deemed inadequate _(useless)_ making their way through bloodied lips. 

_As ages pass I wear away every part of myself that once held value. Whatever excuse I make, in practice all it amounts to is burdening the others with my shortcomings. Shortcomings they are right to resent._

Stilted, quiet. His movement hovering as if any choice could prove a mistake. 

The Speaker had agonized, then, over his comrades. 

It was not without cause. 

_Lahabrea is wrong about a great many things._

Such words had been said coolly. Unconcerned. Dismissive. 

Elidibus. 

Maerec grimaces. 

It was no accident that Ilberd obtained the Eyes from such terrible depths. Mayhap not the Emissary’s hand directly—could’ve been another Nabriales or Igeyorhm.

_I suffered the overweening presence of Lahabrea that men might host the power of gods, only for you to undo my hard work._

The man with a scorpion mask, exasperated and searching for any amusement he could find—eager to display his disdain. Heedless of the death he took upon himself, laid at his superior’s feet. 

For all that Ascians could evade death clinging to the shores of the lifestream, Lahabrea’s battle at the Praetorium had left its mark. When the Speaker fell he found scorn for falling, berated himself perhaps beyond what his colleagues voiced aloud. 

_He may yet learn from his mistakes._

Somebody planned this. None of them bothered to put a stop to what was happening, and worse yet they delivered one of their own as fuel in Shinryu’s summoning. 

For whatever conflicts and barriers exist between them, Maerec finds he cannot imagine the Scions inflicting such a fate on him—and theirs is a bond of only some few cycles. To be condemned thus after _eons…_

 _Better if you killed him then, you think? Spare such a fate?_ Fray asks.

It comes too easy. The Warrior shakes his head.

“If I’d had to, I would’ve… it’s a mercy things didn’t come to that.”

The moment these words escape his mouth, Maerec can only doubt them. Mercy for Lahabrea, unable even to speak as he flees existence day after day? Mercy for himself, glad to escape such a burden?

Can such a thing truly be called kindness?

 _He yet lives,_ Fray muses. _So long as that remains, the choice does also. If his suffering is our concern, well. He’s endured. Things may still improve but the auracite’s available should we need it._

_You haven’t answered my question._

Maerec sits in silence, watching as a fly sets itself on the gutted remains of a gigas.

It occurs to him that they, too, had names.

“Thordan,” he says after a moment. “Elidibus… whoever else among the Ascians is responsible.”

An exhale then, through his nose.

“Can’t rightly fight time, can I? Or worry. Not the Scions’, not my own. Not the things in his head.”

_Suppose not. But it’s worth it to get close as we can, eh?_

***

He cleans his armor and leaves the carnage behind him.

***

Alphinaud finds the Warrior in his own room, sharpening a molybdenum longblade he’s favored of late. Maerec keeps his quarters at the Rising Stones in a state of organized clutter—boots slumped by the door, armor hung haphazardly on its stand. Trinkets from various travels clamor for space on walls, floors, and desk alike. A banner from the Mol, an Ishgardian star globe. Skallic treasures and Lominsan wines. Chronometer steadily ticking away seconds.

This place, this routine, is one he finds comfort in. Work gloves replace gauntlets as he runs the sword across its whetstone time and again.  
He puts these aside when the elezen knocks, quickly waves off his apologies and gestures to a chair in invitation. Insists the interruption is of no consequence.

“It’s only that I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” Alphinaud says, taking his seat. “About all of this, really.”

He looks at his knees, subject to the expectant gaze of Hydaelyn’s champion.

“You’ve always brought me a great deal of comfort, you know,” he confesses. “Inspired me to do more, be more. Stop assuming I knew everything and learn the world through experience. During my worst moments it was your will to keep going that moved me to do the same. I will forever be grateful for that.”

Maerec averts his eyes.

“You’re giving me too much credit,” he answers quietly. “Your achievements belong to you.”

Alphinaud smiles, and if he disagrees he does not say so.

The expression fades.

“My last wish is to add to your burdens,” the boy continues. “Now least of all. So it seemed prudent that I consider the matter on my own before raising questions in any official capacity. You won’t be surprised that I’ve been asking myself why the Warrior of Light would protect one of our oldest, most persistent adversaries.”

Maerec manages not to wince. 

“My first thought,” Alphinaud goes on, and for all that the words suggest accusation there is no judgment in his tone, “was that this must be some stratagem of yours. A means of gaining leverage against the Ascians, or of attaining greater knowledge… but with your own claims and Lahabrea’s admittedly frail condition, I soon discarded this possibility. There are many ways to remove a foe from the field, and my impression is you have taken a kinder one.”

The Warrior offers no interruption.

“It seemed more likely that you would undertake some venture of reckless compassion—after all, this is hardly the first occasion. With matters of tempering brought to light I’ve found myself considering Estinien. Subjected thus to Nidhogg’s will, even the Lord Commander was willing to strike him down for Ishgard. Had we not resolved between us to rescue him I doubt very much he'd have survived.”

“It’s simpler than you imagine,” Maerec murmurs, barely audible.

Even so, Alphinaud pauses.

Waits.

“I’m not a worthier judge than any other man,” explains the dark knight. “There are those I’ve killed who deserved it and those who didn’t. Saved, too, I suppose. You needn’t fear I’ll watch our star burn for him but in truth? I couldn’t stand witness to his pain any longer. Not seeing its extent and source.”

A long silence passes between them. 

Alphinaud presses his lips firm.

“What of Laurentius?” he asks at last. “You know naught of Lahabrea before Zodiark laid claim. In saving Estinien, we at least saw he was a good man… but Laurentius? He took your charity and spat on it. How can you expect an Ascian to do any different?”

Maerec sighs. 

“I don’t know,” he replies wearily. “Maybe it all will come out to nothing. A mistake. But Ascian or not, there is no one else for him. I’d not be able to face myself if I didn’t try.”

***

Eventually, Alphinaud smiles once more—if perhaps sadly.

“I hope you will see your loyalty rewarded, my friend.”

***

Thancred knocks at the door of Dawn’s Respite as Maerec is midway through his shift. 

The rogue’s jaw is set, his shoulders squared, his gaze steeled. It does not match the levity of his tone.

“I’ve a favor to ask you,” he says, and the tension of his proclamation sinks like lead chest-to-gut.

“…Is aught well?” Maerec asks in response, wary, keeping his place in the doorway.

Thancred lets out a huff, short and stiff.

“Of course,” he says. Hesitates. Folds his arms over his chest. “Is he out?”

Maerec glances over his shoulder. Lahabrea, curled on his side, has not moved since succumbing to the draught some hours past. His breath comes slow and even.

“Aye,” replies the Warrior of Light. “He’s not like to wake for a while yet.”

Thancred’s mouth thins. His fingers twitch at his sides.

“Mind if I have a look?”

It’s as if the air has frozen between them. For several moments, Maerec finds himself caught staring at the Scion like a stranger.

“Listen,” he says, voice low and measured and calmer than he feels. “As he is now, you could destroy him without trying. He may even want you to. It isn’t why I brought him here.”

Thancred meets this proclamation without blinking, without any movement to betray life whatsoever. Then he exhales, and is himself again, and looks down. 

“Fortunately for all of us,” he replies, his voice high in a failed attempt at ease, “I’m not actually here to twist the knife. Just to look at it. If there’s cause for concern, well. You’ll be with me. Right?”

A beat passes.

“I need to face this,” Thancred admits at last. “Could go it alone I suppose, but… I’d just as soon not do something I’ll regret. Please.”

How can he refuse?

***

A yalm away and no closer.

Fists at his side, white knuckled. Face pale. Rigid head to toe even as his eyes dart over the Ascian where he lies. Find his face. Away again.

There is a tremor, most visible in the arms. No action taken for it.

The Warrior remains within reach and Thancred says not a word the entire time.

***

“Are you alright?” Maerec asks him afterward, returned to the foyer once more. 

No response.

Then, stiffly, Thancred shakes his head.

“…Didn’t know what I’d feel, going into that room. Relief? Anger? Panic?” A short, humorless laugh escapes. “Funny, I still don’t know.”

Thankfully, there are none within earshot this moment. They are afforded some small measure of privacy as the rogue hardens his expression once more.

Meets his eyes.

“None of this fixes anything,” he says. “But it feels right even so.”

Maerec finds himself retreating half a step even as Thancred continues in a hush. “Lahabrea _should_ feel what it’s like to be nothing. To be powerless. To be at the mercy of something bigger than you, using you, erasing you… _I’m glad for it.”_

His last words come out in a hiss, but the lull that follows gives lie to his declaration. Thancred’s mouth has gone taut, his legs squared, a frown drawing his features close.

After a moment, he slams his fist against the wall—flesh impacting stone enough to make the Warrior wince.

“And yet, it still doesn’t make anything better!” the rogue snaps. “Who knows if that wretch would even understand, brought back to his full power? And the worst of it is,” he brings the stricken hand back, uses it to cover his face, “it was really never about me. I was a means to an end, nothing more.”

Thancred exhales, somewhat shakily. Wipes down his expression and finds Maerec again.

“There was no… you should know Lahabrea didn’t care about causing pain. It had nothing to do with anything. I just didn’t matter, and damn it—people should. _Everyone_ should.”

The Warrior doesn’t tell him that he doubts Lahabrea mattered under the circumstances, either.

What would it help? Injury remains.

Thancred looks down.

“…It should be more satisfying than this, but it’s the same ugliness,” he says eventually. “I don’t think it’s in me to stop hating him, but… things like this shouldn’t happen.”

A soft, bitter laugh escapes.

“Then again though, what I want didn’t matter then so why should it matter now? Either way—seeing Lahabrea broken after being trapped in plain sight for so long is meaningless. If he can’t even understand then what’s the point? Sharing doesn’t help when this is the end.” 

Sighing heavily, he seeks Maerec once more. 

“Sorry. It’s only… I thought I had some right by now, to feel better.” 

The response is a reflexive one, as the dark knight brings a hand to rest on Thancred’s shoulder. Hesitation occurs to him only after he’s bridged the gap—palm hovering against fabric before settling in place.

“I’m sorry,” says Maerec softly, and if he manages to match his companion’s gaze it’s a conscious decision. “There are moments I ought have paid you more mind, and I didn’t.” A beat passes, and into the quiet he adds, “You’re a good man. Certainly better than I am. I just want you to know I… I am grateful, to have you here.”

The rogue’s eyes widen. His brow knits. A faint, uncertain smile crosses his lips.

“Where on earth did that come from? Not that I object, of course…”

Maerec allows his hand to fall free even as his own mouth tilts up in-turn.

“You’ve a right to be angry,” he says with a shrug. “I can hardly grudge you that. And truly, if you’d decided to hate me after my part here I’d not be able to blame you for that either.”

This earns a snort. “Well I did consider it,” Thancred replies. “A lot. But that’s exhausting, and I’d rather have a friend if I still can.”

Perhaps he sees something, then, in the stunned silence that follows. 

“Maerec,” he adds tentatively, calling his attention in full. “I will never forget who it was that saved me, or the efforts required to that end. If my rescuer is a softhearted fool with more compassion than sense, well. That’s not the worst thing.” A somewhat wider smile this time, as he claps the Warrior on the arm. “And besides, I _am_ still here. Needs be I can always kill the bastard if he proves ungrateful.”

When Maerec breathes out it is a tight, muted sound that leaves him simultaneously more and less uneasy. “Hopefully we won’t reach such a state,” he answers.

A pause as Thancred considers.

“Aye,” he agrees at last. “Hopefully not.”

***

The boy enters in early evening, after Urianger takes his leave and before Maerec returns. Lahabrea remains prone, eyes lidded, and though he doesn't rise he does stir upon sighting his visitor.

Unukalhai reaches his bedside (the room smells sterile, a mix of gauze and remedies and candlewax) and bows low.

“I offer sincere apologies for not arriving sooner,” he says, youth undermined by formality as he takes his seat in the chair provided. “Between my age and master, the Scions have not deemed it prudent to permit a meeting between us… esteemed Lahabrea.”

The Ascian’s expression remains dull. He neither moves nor makes any sound in reply.

More hurriedly, as if to reassure, “You needn’t fear our exchange will be discovered. By my hand their schedule has been disrupted—with sufficient diversion to keep them occupied. No harm but the inconvenience that comes from carelessness. Our activities are secure.”

Still, no response.

Unukalhai fidgets in place. Soon enough he takes to studying his lap. “I have no doubt that my presence is of little consequence. Next to your lifetime I am scarcely a breath. Regardless…” he gestures to his own mask, visage stark and unchanging, “…this was a tradition you and yours provided when my own were lost forever. Ensuring such needs were addressed in some manner seemed important, though its features are not your own.” A pause, and he admits, “It was meant to be mine when I came of age. Or near enough, for a mortal. I’m glad it could be of use.”

Nothing. No tension. No change in demeanor.

A moment’s hesitation.

Then, “I’m unsure how to proceed. The Scions stand at odds with Ascians but they do mean to be kind. At least, that is my belief. Still… it is not their place to keep you.”

At this Lahabrea looks up slightly. The movement is small, subtlety made subtler behind his mask.

“It is not for me to stir conflict… beyond the precarious nature of your position, I would not forsake my own in error. Therefore I can only leave the choice to you.”

The child pauses. Steels himself.

“…If you will it, I can call my master. Elidibus would come for you. Surely you know this.”

Lahabrea’s breath catches. What skin remains visible drains of color.

Time passes.

Eventually he does manage to exhale. Shuts his eyes.

The Speaker reaches out a single arm and lays his hand on Unukalhai’s crown beneath his cowl.

They remain frozen like this briefly before Lahabrea slowly, deliberately shakes his head.

Withdraws to hold himself tightly—turning so his back faces the boy instead.

Unukalhai, otherwise unmoving, clenches his hands around fabric at his knees. The muscles at his throat are tense, temporarily trapping his reply.

 _“You are his equal,”_ he says at last. When this meets no change he continues, _“You_ are no less eternal than he is. You aren’t supposed to… to…”

Language fails. Whatever expression Unukalhai makes remains obscured. With only sound to betray him, he makes none.

Eventually he says, scarce more than a whisper, “My apologies. That was selfish of me.”

Then, “The time I bought grows short. Before it ends, I would tell you… should you change your mind, I am here. You are not without friends.”

Unukalhai stands. Makes his way toward the exit.

Pauses, looking back to the huddled form of a paragon, and departs.


	7. Chapter 7

Maerec purchases a simple, warm set of clothes for the occasion. One altered cotton dalmatica. Linen halfgloves and sarouel. Unobtrusive boots.

Together, none of it particularly resembles adventurer’s gear. No frills or fancy dyes. The lot is designed for comfort and discretion… or near enough, given a mask.

He presents it to Lahabrea during a spell of wakefulness one afternoon.

“It’s time for a change of pace,” the Warrior informs him. His tone is perhaps more brusque than intended. “Come on.”

For a moment, nothing.

Then the Ascian exhales, and inclines his head, and obediently sets to removing the robes he’d grown accustomed to.

***

This time, Maerec averts his gaze.

***

Their passage to the stable is swift and discreet.

A draught chocobo awaits them, easily twelve fulms upright. Yellow plumage tipped white at the wings and tail. Darker crest. Beside it stands a Duskwight, her hair just brushing the axe she favors.

“Should give you no trouble Provost,” she says, her voice hoarse from years of smoke. “Just be sure you have her back in a day or two.”

“My thanks” replies the dark knight as he helps Lahabrea into the saddle. “As things stand, this should be quick.”

***

With the traffic Revenant’s Toll receives, few pay mind when the Warrior of Light departs with an Ascian passenger.

***

“…That was Odile,” Maerec explains eventually. Though the settlement fades behind them his voice stays hushed like some harm might come from being overheard. “Met her in Limsa when I first took up adventuring. We’ll exchange work and favors from time to time… it’s mostly retaining, her end.”

Surrounded by arms, chest, and reins as he is—Lahabrea does not respond. Doesn’t move. Keeps his head down and watches nothing.

The Warrior exhales.

“Sorry for the lack of space,” he adds after some moments. “Ordinarily would’ve gotten you your own mount. Respectfully though, I half expect you to go careening off a cliff left to your own devices.” 

No change.

“With choices I’ve made, I _am_ responsible for you at the moment. Good or ill I mean to honor that.”

This time, something that might be a wince. At such an angle the gesture proves ambiguous.

“Mind,” Maerec adds in a rush, “I’d much rather be responsible than the alternative. Easily. So don’t…”

This time, it’s his turn to go quiet.

Lahabrea waits.

“…don’t twist this against yourself. Alright?”

Of course he receives no agreement.

Still, as the surrounding aether shifts and temperatures fall from early summer into winter (like reaching into an icebox, Maerec laments) the Speaker leans against his guard with ease.

***

They travel the snowdrifts of Central Coerthas on land, forgoing flight. It’s cold enough with the sprites and crystals at work—risks aside, bringing altitude into play just isn’t worthwhile.

“It’s strange,” Maerec confesses, interrupted only by the crush of snow underfoot. “Just ten years ago, this place would’ve been green… I was away when the change happened. Time I came back it already felt like another world.”

Lahabrea shivers.

He closes his arms around the slighter man, who goes perfectly still.

“Sorry,” Maerec says. “Didn’t mean to bring up… anyway. We’ll be in soon enough.”

***

Dragonhead is quiet these days. With the war over, defense is maintained more against wildlife and the occasional rogue Dravanian than coordinated attacks. Focus returns to survival in frozen conditions—shepherding karakul, hunting orobon and bateleur for meat. Chinchilla furs line the coats of many inhabitants and the air smells of woodsmoke.

Ishgard’s domain, without question.

A tavern has withstood the town’s transformation. This is where, after dismounting and securing their ride, the pair makes way.

***

“Barkeep’s new,” Maerec murmurs as they take their seats at the corner of the room. He sounds relieved as he says it. At this hour, business lulls between lunch and supper. There is little competition as mulled wines are prepared on their behalf. “I’ve grown a fair lot since my time here, but still. Better this way.”

Lahabrea has his hands in his lap. Doesn’t look up. His eyes appear sunken behind the white of his mask.

A sigh, and Maerec leans forward. Rests his elbows on the table—metal on wood cast yellow by torchlight.

“There’s something I’d ask of you,” says the Warrior. A pause, and against the stasis he adds, “I’m going to tell a story of mine, and I’d like you to listen as best you’re able. Maybe it’ll mean something. Maybe it won’t. I don’t know. But I’d have you hear it nonetheless.”

The Ascian presses his mouth firm for several moments. Eventually, he looks up. Meets his rescuer’s scrutiny.

Maerec exhales.

Knits his fingers together.

Begins.

“I’m aware you’ve ages more experience in this world than I do, but try to imagine for a moment your existence began somewhere like this. You’d seen nothing past this town and its visitors. War exists from the moment you’re born and the enemies are strange, inhuman creatures. There’s no reasoning with them. They are ageless and relentless, determined to exterminate your kind for no reason you can understand. Reality has bent around the issue well before you existed, and every aspect of your life is built to defend against such things. You’re expected to enlist for battle when you come of age. Dragon slaying makes for a common childhood game, as is picking out heretics in a crowd. Such rowdiness is encouraged, so long as it doesn’t cross to true danger—so naturally you and your friends toe the line at all opportunities. Families attend worship least once a week, affair filled with ritual and prayer and glory-to-Halone with all who serve her. She’ll keep you safe, the priests promise. She’ll kill the beasts who stalk your dreams.”

Lahabrea continues to watch, silent. Still.

The Warrior goes on.

“…Your father joins the fight when you’re still a boy. Too young for much memory, but what you had was warm. Promised he’d keep you and your mother safe. Taught you to hold your wooden sword in a way that had you beating other kids with ease. Carried you on his shoulders, maybe. And your mother—she loves him with all she is. Still, when he leaves it’s treated like something wonderful. Something to celebrate. If life seems more empty without him, well. He’s out there making sure life goes on at all.”

A tense moment goes by. What comes next is hard, clipped.

“Your father deserts before you’re thirteen cycles of age, and in the eyes of your community that’s no better than heresy. Suddenly you’ve no friends left. Your mother is viewed with suspicion and disdain. Games turn to fights in her defense as children tell you every awful thing their parents say about her. You’re not sure if it’s worse when they throw barbs her way or when they leave her alone, but you strike out nonetheless. And your father—well. Fuck him, wherever he is.”

Maerec’s fist closes over itself. He blinks, and sees Lahabrea again.

“Anyway. Whole mess ruins your mother. Her husband’s stain spreads to both of you and no amount of piety will make it right. Just another ugly thing fallen into your lap that you need to accept. She still believes things will get better, still tells you as much. She sees you fed before herself, mends your clothes, bandages your hurts. Scolds you for getting filth in the house. Sings so things feel a little less empty. And one day, the church sees fit to _reward_ her many efforts. The priest who instructed you in morality for long as you can recall comes, and offers means to survive with her son in peace… for a price. Faith, dignity. She gives all that up in the hopes of a normal life. If she can hold a job, if attacks cease, that comes with stripping away the very thing that let her keep going. Rotten at its base… 

And that, of course, kills her in the end.”

Another beat. The Warrior shrugs, as if what he describes is simple.

“Me, I got reckless after. Went after the man-shaped monsters who saw a woman despairing and took advantage. Those who claimed blessing when they spit on her face… Halone is supposed to stand for battle, and justice, and truth. Thought maybe I acted in her name, but who knows anymore? Spent plenty of time brawling, making an ass of myself, toward the end. Didn’t serve any purpose but getting sent off.”

This is followed by hesitation.

In time, Maerec utters Lahabrea’s name.

The Speaker starts slightly but keeps his attention.

“I found my mother dead by her own hand. I won’t see it happen to you.”

Not so much as a blink, but there is something behind Lahabrea’s gaze as he studies him. A tension that sinks into his jaw, his chest, his hands curling in on themselves.

He opens his mouth. Shuts it.

Looks down.

“You…” says a voice, barely a whisper. Rough with disuse.

Lahabrea stops.

Breathes.

Tries once more.

“…You needn’t concern yourself with me so.”

Neither of them say anything more at first. When Lahabrea finally glances up he finds the Warrior of Light staring at him. Eyes bright, mouth lifting at the corners despite all circumstance.

The Ascian freezes, less as if he’s been caught than having spied what he has no right to.

It is a mercy that the barkeep brings their wine, then.

Places like this can only keep so many ingredients. Sugar and cinnamon, cloves and Lominsan red. Served in ceramic mugs just hot enough to be uncomfortable.

Maerec sets his in front of him, looking past the brim for the time it takes to collect himself. When he turns to Lahabrea, the Ascian has taken his own drink in both hands to down as much as he can. This is less than might be anticipated, and after only a few seconds he follows the Warrior’s lead.

His shoulders remain hunched, his attention lowered.

Even so.

“Suppose I decide to concern myself anyway,” Maerec replies, his own voice just wavering. “Might I convince you to at least share the extent of your ills?”

Lahabrea shuts his eyes altogether. The Warrior does not begrudge him this and for several minutes the two only drink together in silence.

“Yes.” It is that same, hoarse, whispering voice. Even as the word escapes, something like pain flits across Lahabrea’s features. “If… if that is what you ask.” 

He stops. 

Swallows. 

Breathes again.

“Mi… do mind. I told you once before. This is past what I can… what can be offered with due gravity. Beyond me. My words—I am lacking.”

The white mask holds none of the anger of its predecessor, no emotion to disguise what possesses its wearer now.

Maerec’s expression softens. “I said I’d hear you, some time back,” he says quietly. “It’s still true Lahabrea. I’ll mind your limits, but… you needn’t pressure yourself so. Not in this.”

Shadowed as they are, the Ascian’s eyes seem to shine. 

He turns away.

In time, barely audible, begins.

“You have heard me… the Ascians, speak of a time the world was whole. Before the Sundering. Before Hydaelyn split reality.”

It looks as if Lahabrea is going to say something else. Naught emerges. He brings his arms over his chest, holding himself at the elbows.

“That was our home. Mine. Everyone’s. It was—there was no true hardship. No atrocities the likes you know today. Life was precious… the connections between people something treasured. What conflicts arose, we overcame together. Stewards of our star.”

For some time, he can say nothing more.

Maerec waits.

“All we did was built on creation. A… with our vast reserves of aether, a thought could be made real. Plants, beasts, constructs. It was the center of all we did. All we were. Nowhere more evident than the capital itself—Amaurot. My city…” 

Again, the Speaker stops.

Searches himself.

“…Catastrophe befell us. A Sound which rent the minds of all who heard it. Our worst fears torn free and manifested upon the world. Ourselves. We of the Convocation, we… elected masters of our fields, responsible for the rest, we… it was our responsibility to put an end to this disaster. Doom across the sea at first, but spreading.”

A shake of the head, as if to clear it.

“My concept was deemed most promising. Speaker, leader, most experienced of our…” A tremor has taken him, slight but persistent. “All save one agreed it was our best chance for survival. And it was my plan which drew from the willing sacrifice of… of…”

Silence.

Then, “Half the star gave themselves to save the rest. Half the star surrendered their lives to forge Zodiark. First of all primals. Your healers surmised. Elidibus serves still as… Elidibus offered his own life to become a-a core. His Heart. As I watched. Aught else was… I couldn’t. My concept. My expertise needed. And when half was followed by half again to restore our ruined world, when… when those who feared what we had done called Hydaelyn in opposition because we couldn’t—”

Lahabrea’s voice cuts off as if he’s been struck. His knuckles are white where he holds himself, his lips drawn to a sharp, pale line.

Maerec begins to rise, unsure if he should approach.

Behind his mask, Lahabrea’s eyes are wide and unseeing.

“…There are no circumstances where I should have survived when all I fought for perished,” he whispers. “None. Yet fate spared me together with two others. Elidibus, His pulse enduring. Emet-Selch, His eyes. I, the failed creator. We remain. All else divided fourteen-fold. The Source and its shards and every soul upon them. Your lives, your aether brought to mere fractions of themselves. We are gone and forgotten. It is our duty to mend.”

“Hey.” Maerec is beside the Ascian—rests a hand over the vice-like grip his companion inflicts on himself. Smooths back and forth there, insistent. “Breathe. Come back for now.”

Lahabrea starts. Moments pass, his hold relaxing in increments. Assent comes in a shudder, an exhale. Then another. Eventually the Speaker leans forward, rests his brow on Maerec’s torso and stays there.

“My thanks,” he murmurs after some time. “I am wel… well enough. Do not alarm yourself.”

The Warrior moves to instead place his palm atop Lahabrea’s head. “It’s no trouble.” He ruffles his hair gently. “You’re doing fine. If you need time though, it’s yours.”

A pause. In slow, almost dreamlike gesture the Speaker clasps Maerec at the ribs—not an embrace but similar. Holds him a spell then leans away, letting him go. 

“I will give what you ask of me. As I can.”

***

Maerec returns after placing two orders for angler stew. Finds Lahabrea intent on his knees, hands folded just above.

“Sorry,” says the dark knight—sitting once more. “I do have questions, if you’re ready. It’s fine if you’re not. We can try another time, or you can go on as you were. Your choice.” A doubtful expression in response, flickering like candlelight. This prompts a smile from Maerec in-turn (sheepish, reflexive) as he adds, “…To be honest, I’m relieved just to hear you. Was feeling a bit useless with all this.”

Tension flits across what features of Lahabrea’s can be seen. 

Vanishes again as he shakes his head.

“Ask.”

It comes out soft, for such a short reply.

Maerec considers. Presses his lips firm.

“…Right,” he says at last. “That case. Rejoinings and Calamities have been Ascian attempts to rebuild. Aye?”

A nod.

Then, “To Rejoin, a Shard needs be flooded with aether of certain aspect,” Lahabrea explains. “Not wholly, not… not given to excess. Such missteps risk another Void. Unusable. There is a margin of imbalance, a… a measure which allows passage. Aether flowing, Shard to Source. The dams break over time. Reintegration comes in Calamities. So we move closer, age by age…”

Lahabrea trails off, repeating the words mutely in their wake.

Wavers.

“…Did you ever find what caused the Sound?” Maerec asks, tentatively, when no further response seems forthcoming. “Any less apocalyptic paths back to Amaurot?”

Again, the Speaker shakes his head. “No. We tried. Lost millenia in trying. It—even now, I cannot see any path which might have granted us success.”

The Warrior looks down.

Hesitates.

Says his name.

“You’ll have been tempered since the moment you called Zodiark forth… won’t that have bound you to His mission all this time?”

No response, at first.

“I am not ignorant to the effects,” says Lahabrea eventually. Wearily. “We… Zodiark’s purpose has been salvation from the first. To restore what was lost. Preserve what remains.” 

A beat. 

“Of our number, E… Elidibus could not endure the march of years, so they were taken from him. He forgets most things in time… never the mission. It is the aid he can give, to guide us. His own continued sacrifice. Reminders of what we must be, in turn.”

This brings a shuddering exhale, and Lahabrea props one elbow on the table. Uses it for support as he rests his head in one hand.

“Emet-Selch remembers all of it. Mourns all of it. Even as the world becomes ash time and again.”

“What of you, then?” Maerec asks quietly. As if that might lessen the sting.

“I…” Lahabrea begins, strained. “…I am intimately aware of my own role in this. My responsibilities. My failures.” His shoulders draw inward even as stiffness lines his jaw. A short, piercing, empty laugh escapes. “Or maybe it was the tempering which allowed me to—to imagine the role of others in this. Hydaelyn. Her summoners.”

Another exhale, one that catches in his chest. Hitches across his body like it hurts.

“Whether I follow my own judgment now or millenia of habit, I… I can no longer say. I only thought—“

For a long time it seems as if the spell of words has left him again. Lahabrea’s throat works, he seems nothing so much as wracked with pain he _cannot_ make real in expressing it.

“I thought they would come.” Wet. High. Sudden as a blow. “I thought if nothing else what I—a resource. An unbroken life. I thought.”

When Maerec gets up this time, he brings his chair with him to find Lahabrea’s side. Puts an arm around him. Draws him close.

“It never should have happened,” he murmurs, one hand working space between the Ascian’s shoulder blades as if that will ease the passage of his lungs. Lahabrea’s every breath comes like a knife wielded against himself, like holding off a moment more might stay the next impact.

Maerec makes eye contact with the barkeep. It takes her but a glance to communicate the question, and receiving a nod she moves on without issue.

This won’t be the first time a patron succumbed to demons. 

Not here.

“You were not meant to,” Lahabrea chokes out, shaking badly, “you weren’t… He left. They left. My sentence. I earned—

I should be—“

“Shhhhhh,” whispers the dark knight. “That’s not true. I promise.”

_I promise._

***

“No path forward.

  
“Judgment passed. Refuse.”

My God, My Master, My people—“

_“Insect.”_

  
“Transgressions outweigh aught else.”

“Only serviceable as fuel. Only means to serve.”

“Blight. Burden. I have ever offered.”

“All I have ever offered.”

“I would have given myself to keep Him still, I would have—“

“Useless. Vain effort. It matters not.”

“Naught of value. I have betrayed it all. I have.”

_ “THEY LOVED ME AND **THIS** I WROUGHT.” _

“Every attempt ending in blood and ruin.”

“Coward. Weakling.”

“Unforgivable to end if there is more I can yet… I can…”

“A stain. Mistake. Unworthy from the first.”

“You had no reason to… to…”

***

_“Of course I did.”_


	8. Chapter 8

It takes time for Lahabrea’s breath to steady. For the rigidity he holds himself with to fade.

Still, he makes no attempt to withdraw and the Warrior shows no designs toward removing him.

“Why did you come for me?”

This time, the question proves exhausted. Mumbled.

_Why did you bother, Warrior of Light?_

Maerec continues to stroke up and down his spine. Keeps his contact gentle.

Considers.

“Even before I knew tempering was at work,” he says eventually, carefully, “it was clear you were caught in a trap that was killing you. Not one you seemed able to escape without aid.”

A pause.

He shifts, winding his fingers through the Ascian’s hair. Lahabrea shuts his eyes.

“…I’m not without faults. There are those I might have left without searching. But I’ve never questioned your devotion, nor your sincerity. Nor do I doubt how much those things have cost.”

No answer. 

“I couldn’t forget you,” the Warrior admits at length. “Not in all this time since Ishgard. If there’s a path that could see you free and I didn’t take it, I… that’s something I’d spend the rest of my life regretting. You deserve better.”

Tension, then. Lahabrea gathers his hands into fists, shakes his head.

“Your generosity is misplaced.” 

Clipped. Abrupt. “My… my better qualities have fled. And my sins are beyond your ken.” An exhale as Maerec finds the nape of his neck. Rather than relieving tension this draws the Ascian inward. “Don’t— _do not tempt me._ I would not abuse you for ignorance.”

It gives the Warrior pause.

“Tempt you to what end?” he asks, touch shifting cautiously to his companion’s back once more. “What abuse?”

Lahabrea only shakes his head again. Shivers. 

Gradually, like the warmth of a palm behind glass or a whisper, draws his aether to meet Maerec’s own.

A writhing, segmented worm with endless teeth. Gnashing, drooling. Slick with gore.

“I know,” the dark knight murmurs. Glances up, torn between his mind’s eye and the warm tavern.

Lahabrea’s refutation curdles inside them both. Silent, pleading. Maerec, aware he yet sits, nonetheless envisions himself upright—a grain of sand before the eye of such a beast. Visible. Noted. Minuscule. For a moment, he nearly understands.

What magnitude of corpses was required to drench such a creature? He is an impossibly small and fragile thing by comparison.

It would be simple for one such as Lahabrea to ruin him like countless others.

He remains unharmed.

Maerec, heedless of being seen, leans in and presses his lips to the fiend. To the ordinary, slightly coarse crown of Lahabrea’s head. 

The connection dissolves like a sigh.

“I’m not so pure or delicate as that,” he says quietly. “If my mortality has limited me, your longevity and fixation have poisoned you to yourself. Please… trust me in this. What you envision is not wholly reasonable.”

The Ascian’s throat works, soundless, for some time. Eventually he exhales again. Opens his eyes. 

A soft, rasping chuckle breaks the silence.

“You praise my devotion,” he says, “but condemn my fixation. Which is it?”

The Warrior of Light quirks his mouth, and breathes a little easier, and tells him, “Each in its own measure.” Though he straightens, his arm remains in place. “You’ve made no deception here, and it seems plain you need aid. I’ll hardly collapse should you accept mine.”

It takes several moments before Lahabrea nods. “…It would be foolish,” he admits at last, so softly it might be a mistake. “To pretend you don’t outstrip me as I am.” 

Whether this brings relief or despair is impossible to determine.

***

Zodiark, the Speaker affirms, is gone. A consequence of the very tempering which kept Him in place. With His being yet shattered, there could be no conscious will behind such an outcome. Nothing personal.

Lahabrea knows this. 

Each primal is imbued with purpose at its inception. Sri Lakshmi draws her followers to bliss by whatever means she has—even deception. Ifrit demands reverence, obedience, a total sacrifice of the self.

When the Convocation called Zodiark, they prayed He would save them. Restore the world to what it was.

…

Three lives remained to represent that reality. Three souls to see His wish, His command, made manifest.

But to overwrite their identities altogether, to remake them as machines for this mission and nothing more, would have been a form of destruction in its own right. So instead, Zodiark swelled and shrank their own natural impulses to suit the Ardor. 

If they became little more than instruments by the end, it came by their own hands. Not His.

Still. 

For the mission and for the legacy of an unbroken world, the Unsundered could not fall. Consequently when Lahabrea’s life could continue only at the expense of his tempering—Zodiark’s mission demanded life be granted priority.

Besides. After so long, perhaps such things really were mere formality.

***

Maerec thanks him afterward. 

“I know this can’t have been easy… you did well. Truly.”

The Ascian doesn’t look up. Shrugs without rejecting the hold which encircles him. Firelight casts him almost-golden, deepens shadows behind his mask.

“It was naught of note. Naught that changes circumstance.”

At this, the Warrior’s lips draw tight. 

“Lahabrea,” he says quietly. “I know I’m no scholar. By your count, perhaps my experience is lacking too. But through stubbornness or luck I do have some knack for changing the lots of others.”

A brief hesitation. Maerec’s frown deepens, then smooths.

“Please,” he continues, “allow yourself my mortal lifetime. I won’t promise every terrible thing can be fixed, and I can’t allow further Calamities. But… even so. Perhaps you’ll find life made better than it’s been. That must count for something.”

What tension remains in Lahabrea’s body leeches away. He allows his full weight to rest against the knight. 

Says nothing for some time. 

“What am I to you?” he asks at last. His voice is hoarse. “This world has causes enough for the Warrior of Light. I’ve given little… little enough reason for such gestures.”

Maerec lets his eyes fall shut.

Considers.

“A man I’d still like to learn, and be learned by,” he replies. 

Says his name.

“I do have regrets of my own. One is failing to see those at end of my blade as they are… not just in strength but in frailty. Good and ill.”

Another hesitation. Neither tension nor sound nor movement of any sort in response.

“It’s no small thing that you heard me. Truly. Given the chance, I’d not see you or this star suffer. I choose this because I want to.”

Lahabrea exhales.

“Naïve little fool,” he murmurs. The words come not with venom but resignation. “Like enough to be your undoing… but a kind sentiment.”

The mask tilts up. Green eyes meet red.

“I am of no use to my own,” the Speaker continues. “If this is what you ask, I… will indulge your request. I’ll hear your case for the span of your life. See if you can convince me this path continues another way… or don’t.”

(Smoke and snow and warm drink. They know these steps.)

Maerec holds his adversary close. 

“I will,” he tells him, and prays this is the truth.

***

It’s easy enough to keep stew hot. The bowls steam, clink against wood as they’re set down. If the barkeep finds it peculiar that they’ve opted to eat side-by-side instead, she doesn't say so.

Fish, onions, garlic, and chives. The meal is creamy. Simple. Lahabrea meets it with a slow but persistent pace.

Three fourths through, he puts his spoon down. Slides his hand under his mask to shield his eyes directly. Locks his mouth shut, posture rigid, making no noise.

“It’s nothing,” he manages when questioned, voice strained. The sentence comes like breath stolen by a blow, leaving nothing behind. With some time and effort he adds, “Nonsense. I don’t know why…”

The words waver as he says them, wet and hushed and terribly lost.

Eventually it passes, and for the first time since liberation Lahabrea finishes his plate.

***

By the time they make their return to Revenant’s Toll, night has arrived. Temperature climbs rapidly as the Coerthan border falls behind them. When Maerec removes his helm to let heat escape his hair sticks out at odd angles. Lahabrea offers no comment on this, and further makes no move to improve his own comfort. Sweat gathers at the base of his neck just the same.

They stable the chocobo. Enter the Rising Stones discreetly as they can. F’lhaminn is tidying the bar while Aenor composes a letter at one of the back tables. The place is otherwise mercifully empty at this hour.

When Maerec leads them toward his own quarters, Lahabrea comes to a stop.

“What is this?” the Ascian breathes. He glances uncertainly toward Dawn’s Respite, but makes no approach.

“Ah,” the Warrior replies. “I thought… well, sickroom doesn’t seem to have been doing much good. Don’t want you getting stuck in your head. If you’d like, you’re welcome to stay with me. Just ask that you not dose yourself to oblivion.”

Lahabrea stares at him behind his mask. Expressionless.

“What of the Scions?” he asks, and this is barely audible at all.

Maerec rubs the back of his neck.

“I _did_ leave a note, earlier,” he says. “Way I see it—so long as no disaster strikes they’ll have little need for alarm.”

An exhale from the Speaker.

“I…” he begins. 

Stops.

Looks down.

“I doubt I would be able to, ah…”

And, shoulders slumping, Lahabrea can say no more. 

His meaning is clear enough.

“I only meant to sleep,” Maerec tells him gently. “If the infirmary’s your preference I’ll take you there instead.”

No answer, at first. 

Then the Ascian steps closer. Finds his hand.

“To sleep,” Lahabrea repeats, and does not meet his gaze as he says it.

***

The Warrior of Light’s room proves no tidier than before, lit by lanterns scattered between mementos and practical effects. Trophies. Antique vessels. Clothes piled in a heap near his wardrobe.

This, Maerec goes to after removing his boots and gauntlets—rummaging about for a nightshirt. Something modest. Something _appropriate_. 

Lahabrea watches from the doorway. 

Frowns.

Wavers a moment before padding to his side.

“Hold,” he murmurs, catching the dark knight’s palm before turning it over. Presses a kiss to his knuckles. Lowers his eyes. “That isn't necessary.”

Once more, Maerec speaks Lahabrea’s true name—earns a shiver for it. “I don’t mean to stray from what I’ve told you,” he tells him. “Truly. You’re ill.”

The immortal lets out a huff that is not quite a laugh. Inclines his head.

Begins unfastening stays in the Warrior’s armor.

“Perhaps,” he replies, mirthless, voice yet rough with disuse.

A moment, and he leans his brow to Maerec’s forearm. Lingers there.

“What becomes of me is… is beyond my concern. I only mean to thank you.”

***

Lahabrea proceeds largely in silence, stops only when he reaches smallclothes. The moment of uncertainty stretches between them, ends when these are left untouched. Another kiss meets the Warrior’s clavicle instead. Remains there for a spell.

When Maerec moves to undress him in-turn, it is with great caution. As if some injury might lurk unseen behind cloth and leather.

It doesn’t. Not this time. 

Lahabrea is better than skin and bones if not by much, ribs shifting delicately in borrowed flesh. Familiar and unfamiliar, hollowed more than memory. Maerec traces these with the tips of his fingers, pauses at the gasp this garners. 

“It’s not,” Lahabrea tells him urgently, strained, “not what you assume. F-Forgive me. I doubt myself.”

So he kisses his throat next, as if in his own apology, and eases the Ascian’s pants free against a moan that resembles a sob.

“No further than this,” Maerec tells him, lifting the mask from his face to perch it on an end table. Pale eyes, damp at the edges. A thin nose. Sharp cheekbones. “I swear. Only ask me to leave and I will.”

Lahabrea shakes his head. Vehement. Blinking rapidly. “Not- no. Stay. Please.”

His face is ashen. If need steals steadiness from the Speaker’s hands it does not stem from arousal. “I mean to reassure you,” says the Warrior firmly. “If any of this is cause for pain I would quit now—“

_“No.”_

And then Lahabrea brings his arms around him.

***

_I accepted my grave._

_They weren’t coming. I no longer tried to escape._

_Show me I…_

_ Show me I am not… _

***

In bed, Maerec holds Lahabrea close—knitting fingers through strands of blond and gray. The Ascian’s head tucks under his chin, their legs intertwined. Each breath comes warm against his throat.

It’s easy to pretend, like this, that they have never shed one another’s blood.

“Within” Lahabrea confides, and he cannot stay the tremor as he does, “there was no room for thought. Strangled on Nidhogg’s rage, the whims of primals and men. My voice was not enough, any… what words I might have used reduced to sound.”

The Warrior gives him time. Does not protest when Lahabrea’s hands contract around his shoulders, as if that might somehow anchor him.

“They must despise me,” he continues. “They must…” 

_“I_ came for you,” Maerec murmurs, his touch shifting up and down the Speaker’s spine. Insistent. “It wasn’t an accident. I’m glad you’re safe.”

Nothing.

Then, a bone-deep shudder.

Lahabrea’s eyes clench shut.

“There are times I dream I haven’t left,” he persists, high and reedy. “As… As if this freedom is only a trick I imagine for myself. Little enough seems true. I cannot trace the differences between what is sundered and unbroken. I—”

“Shhhhhhhh…” says the Warrior. Then after a brief consideration, he begins to wind his aether across the surface of Lahabrea’s own.

Lightly. Cautiously. Like catching spider-silk. The glow of embers branching like veins, like capillaries, threading a fire that darkens the world around it. Violet, guttering, torn—it seeps like an infection. This contact slackens Lahabrea, tension fleeing his limbs and face together surely as if the strings which control him have been cut.

Maerec stops.

One breath. Another. The blaze rises slowly, tentatively.

Mingles.

“You’re out,” the Warrior of Light reminds him. “This is real. You’re not going back.”  
  
When Lahabrea nods it is a loose, unsteady gesture. As though some external force controls his body and not the man himself. His exhale proves no different.

It is easier, Maerec finds, to feel how the soul stone supports him like this. Lahabrea himself is channeled through lungs, heartbeat, and bones granted by the abyss. He rests heavy on the frame, lets it direct him through vital signs and expressions otherwise beyond him.

“Just the same. I would not have you come to resent this,” whispers the Ascian at last. “It is more than I have earned, and still I—“

Flashes, then, of a figure—two-legged, many-armed, collapsing beneath itself. A mouth stripped of teeth pleads wordlessly, without lips. Like a slug. The flesh oozes and with its reach comes an impression of something sticky, clinging. Vile.

The breath leaves Maerec temporarily, and he focuses on the aether itself. How its flicker comes in time with his own pulse.

He pulls Lahabrea near in the ways he can—tightening his hold. Pressing him close. Pushing forward with the heat of his own soul. 

The Speaker gasps, a soft and inarticulate noise. Goes absolutely still.

“Listen to me,” says Maerec, his voice low. _“I do not view you in those terms._ What you condemn yourself for is too familiar for me to do the same. Do you understand?”

Lahabrea stares at nothing, his expression blank. Frozen. Even so, after several seconds he nods again.

The dark knight doesn’t release his grip.

“…I don’t mind being sought,” he says at last. “Truly. Not so long as it’s for myself. You’ve not offended me.”

When Maerec relaxes it is slow. Deliberate. Pressing to what is torn as he withdraws, offering an illusion of something complete.

Lahabrea whimpers, and if it isn’t pained it is desperate nonetheless. He conceals his face against Maerec entirely as if that will stop further response.

Even so, in a muffled voice he answers. “You have no notion of what you say. How I’ve fallen.”

The Warrior sighs.

Ruffles his hair.

“Maybe I don’t. But I know you’ve survived this far, at least.

Give yourself time. Maybe you’ll get up again.”

  
***

Consciousness leaves Lahabrea first, and he seems emptier for its loss. The Ascian does not frown, does not twitch. Rendered inert and mute and utterly exhausted.

_A Calamity came by his will._

It seems impossible in the moment. Watching Dalamud descend then erupt from Limsa Lominsa—skies igniting with Bahamut’s flight. People clutching one another in the street, trampling each other as they took to the sea. As if Llymlaen in this hour might offer her protection. As if the isle of La Noscea was less stable than the waves themselves. Those maimed returned from Carteneau with bodies laced in burns. Ceruleum or primal made little difference.

Pink, melted flesh. Skeletons warped beyond recognition. All this, in the name of Zodiark.

_And it was no better for those that came before._

_Aye, he wasn’t free._

_But even knowing any bodies in your wake are muddled between the wicked and the unlucky—even with your great affinity for death._

_You’ll not match his time. His numbers._

Maerec draws his thumb experimentally across Lahabrea’s mouth. 

Pulls away.

Shuts his eyes.

_Perhaps this affection is a betrayal of sorts._

_Can’t be helped._

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to take the opportunity and invite you to a FFXIV fan discord here!
> 
> I know a lot of people don't know what to expect with new groups. Frankly, I can be skittish with that sort of thing myself. So it's not lightly that I say this is a dream community. Everyone is so respectful, enthusiastic, and encouraging! Whether it's chatting story development, analyzing lore, or just gushing over favorite characters--this discord focuses hard on enabling passion. It's the kind of space where differing opinions can be discussed and debated without animosity (we have incredible mods who help with that) plus you have an opportunity to be heard whether you mainly write _or_ read. Lurking is completely fair game too!
> 
> I'd been looking for a spot like this for... maybe a year or so? If you want somewhere that puts fostering creative energy first I definitely recommend checking it out. ^^


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